Ettelëa
by Spamberguesa
Summary: Translation: Stranger. Flying headfirst through a windshield is supposed to kill a person, not drop them in the creepiest forest in the entire bloody universe. Given what Lorna left behind her, however, she'll take giant spiders, incomprehensible strangers, and culture shock any day. Or, what was an attempt at a realistic GiME fic, until I added zombies.
1. Gortaítear

Yes, after fourteen years I have finally succumbed and started a "Girl (well, woman) Falls Into Middle Earth" fic. I'm attempting to actually make it realistic, as I have read some utterly fantastic realistic GiME fics. The woman in question, Lorna, is from my own books, the first of which is up on my profile on AO3.

I have noticed that most of the GiME's have prior knowledge of Tolkien canon. Lorna, by and large, does not. She read _The Hobbit_ as a child, but that was twenty-five years and a great many drugs ago, so to begin with, she has absolutely no idea just what the hell is going on.

* * *

If this was the afterlife, it bloody sucked.

The first, and definitely most_ pressing_ thing that Lorna was aware of was pain. A lot of it. Which made sense, really; her last memory was of flying head-first through the windscreen of her van. That alone suggested that this was not, in fact, the afterlife – she'd done some right nasty things in her thirty-three years on Earth, but she was pretty sure none of it was bad enough to get her sent to hell.

In any event, this didn't feel like any hell she'd ever heard tell of. It smelled like a forest – damp earth, leaf mold, with an undercurrent of dying grass. The ground beneath her was hard, but far too uneven to be asphalt. There couldn't be any people around, either, for her head was mercifully quiet for the first time in months.

Opening her eyes seemed like a terrible idea, but she'd have to do it sooner or later, so it was best to get it over with. Her head hurt so much already that it wasn't like a little more pain would make much difference. Or so she thought.

"Son've a bitch," she muttered, turning her head and shielding her eyes. Though the light was quite dim, it still threatened to blind her, and sent a stab of white-hot agony straight through her brain. There was dampness at her temple, and when she touched it, her fingers came away smeared with red. Blood. Awesome.

Her beleaguered brain piped up long enough to remind her that she had not been alone in the van – her nameless quasi-friend had in all probability gone through the windshield with her, so he ought to be around here somewhere. Wherever the hell 'here' even was. If this was somehow her dying hallucination, her mind could at least have coughed up something worth seeing.

She sat up, and very nearly threw up. Lorna was no stranger to pain, but this was goddamn bloody ridiculous. If she hadn't broken at least one rib, she'd be right surprised, and there was something badly wrong with her left arm – dislocated, she realized. Well, she knew how to fix _that_, even if it wasn't going to be any fun. Unfortunately, she was left-handed, which was going to leave her at a severe disadvantage against…well, whatever. Everything.

Somehow she made it to her feet, bracing her hand against the nearest tree – the bark felt unpleasantly slimy – and shoved. Predictably, it hurt like a bastard, and she swore as only the Irish could. Dizziness gripped her, and she had to lean against the tree or risk falling over.

"You out there, mate?" she called, trying to blink the blurriness from her eyes. She didn't know if she wanted him to answer her or not – if he did, it would mean she wasn't alone, but it would also confirm the reality of everything around her.

No answer came, from anything or anyone. Brilliant. Did she stay, or did she go? In her not inconsiderable experience with hallucinations, they tended to fall apart if you subjected them to close examination. Moving would hurt, but if she could spot the inconsistencies, she might snap out of it.

Her first few steps were utter agony, and her head swum so badly that she almost fell to her knees. There was nothing for it but to grit her teeth and keep going, swearing all the while – Irish really was a language practically built for creative cursing, and she kept up a steady litany as she tried to find anything that might resemble a path.

Admittedly, Lorna didn't have much experience with forests – it wasn't like Ireland had many anymore – but this one was _creepy_. For one thing, it had to be very old, going by the size of the trees, most of which appeared to be dying. It was also, save for wind in the high treetops, almost completely silent, without so much as a single bird calling. She half expected a pack of zombies to come lurching out of the undergrowth.

Her head was still bleeding, but she had nothing save her flannel shirt to use as a bandage, and she wasn't about to tear it up. The longer she walked, though, the less aware she became of all her myriad hurts; simple, repetitive, mindless movement was a wonderful way to block out pain (and most everything else). It was still there, but you didn't care about it quite so much.

_Come on, self_, she thought, _wake up_. She didn't know how long she'd been walking, but darkness was fast descending, and still her hallucination (if that was even what it was), showed no sign of fracturing. Though she had neither seen nor heard any sign of life since she arrived, she still didn't want to be stuck here after dark. Oh, she had a lighter, but doubted any of this wood would make a very good fire.

A single ray of light pierced the canopy, a red-gold ray of sunset. She looked up, trying to find a hole in the leaves – and damn near screamed.

The biggest fucking spiderweb she'd ever seen in her life stretched overhead. It was hooked between five separate trees, like some kind of massive parody of a trampoline. Some of the strands had to be as big around as her leg, pale and horrifying.

There was not much in the world that really, truly freaked Lorna out. Unfortunately, spiders were at the top of that last – she'd watched a documentary one, while living with her sister, about some spider in Australia that was so big it ate birds. The pictures of their webs had nothing at all on this thing, and she was not too proud to admit that she was two seconds away from pissing herself. She'd had some bad, bad trips over the years, but she did not want to hang around and give this one time to get worse. She didn't care if she had busted ribs and a cracked skull – she was out of here, right bloody now.

To her utter horror, something skittered in the trees behind her – something that sounded very, very big. She was not about to turn around to find out what, especially since she could already guess. She didn't care if this was a dying dream or some kind of forced drug trip – she was _not_ going to die by spider bite, thank you so very much. Adrenaline shoved all her pain to the back of her mind, and she knew, dimly, that her body would exact vengeance for it later, but right now she did not remotely care. She was willing to yarf up one of her kidneys, if it meant she could survive this.

"_Daro!_"

The voice was so unexpected that Lorna tripped, but managed to right herself before she could go crashing to the ground. "Get out've here!" she cried, flailing with her good arm.

"_Daro_!"

"Oh, _daro_ yourself," she panted, scrambling as best she could over a massive tree-root. She couldn't recognize the language, and she still couldn't see the speaker, but if they wanted to get eaten by a damn giant spider, that was none of her concern. Or at least, she thought it wasn't, until she almost ran eye-first into the tip of an arrow.

"Jesus bloody _Christ!_" she yelped, staggering backward and finally losing her footing. All the pain she'd held more or less at bay came surging to the forefront again, leaving her unable to do anything but swear as she tried to wipe the mingled sweat and blood from her eyes.

There was in fact a person on the other end of the arrow – tall (but then, everyone was tall compared to Lorna), vaguely androgynous, and rather improbably attractive for a nutter with a bow. He or she looked two seconds away from shooting her in the head and having done with it, which Lorna could not, on the whole, say she would really mind at this point.

The person didn't speak, but evidently they had a lot of friends who were more than willing to start yelling. There was a strange twanging sound, and it took her a minute to work out that it had to be dozens of bow strings. Maybe they wouldn't all get eaten after all.

"Man le carel sí?" the person asked, glaring down at her. What language was that? It sounded Welsh, which was not a language Lorna knew well at all. While it was technically Gaelic, it was very different from Irish or Scots Gaelic. When she'd been in gaol, one of the other prisoners spoke Welsh, but prison had been years ago now. She wracked her brain for anything useful.

"Ble ydw i?" she asked._ Where am I?_

A blank stare met her question – apparently not Welsh after all. "Do you speak English? Irish?" Apparently a _nope_ on those as well.

He (and she was pretty sure it was a he) was looking somewhat agitated, as well as disapproving. "Pedich i lam edhellen?"

She shrugged, and winced when pain lanced through her shoulder. "I got nothing." It occurred to her briefly that he might just be unable to understand her, which even a lot of Irish people had trouble with, but no – this communication barrier was too complete for that.

Lorna struggled to her feet, wincing. God knew she was no threat to anyone or anything right now, whether she needed to be or not. Her captor must have realized that, for he lowered his bow. Who in bloody hell carried a _bow_?

_Someone who lives in a forest full of giant spiders_, she thought.

He pointed at her head, which was still bleeding sluggishly, and she shrugged, having no way at all to explain the injury. The action pulled something in her left shoulder, and she winced again, rubbing it.

"I'm no danger to you," she sighed. "I wish to bloody Christ you spoke any sensible language. Maybe I really did die, and this is some level've hell after all."

* * *

Faelon really did not know what to do. He had no idea how an Edain female – unarmed, injured, and apparently completely without supplies – had made it this far into the forest alive. He knew the Edain tended to be shorter than the Eldar, but this one was so small he had thought her a child from a distance – which was the only reason he had not shot her.

It was clear she spoke no Sindarin, but nor did she seem to comprehend any of the other tongues he tried. She was apparently attempting the same with him, but he did not recognize any of her languages, either.

The King had been very _definite_ about what ought to be done with trespassers in his realm, but this woman was no orc, and somehow she had got herself badly wounded. Faelon was no linguistic scholar; perhaps someone within the halls would be capable of speaking with her. They needed to know why she was here, but more importantly, the needed to know if she was as alone as she appeared.

Captain Tauriel, her armor spattered with black spider blood, leapt down from the nearest tree. The Edain woman stared at her, clearly fascinated.

"She is not a child, small though she is," Faelon said. "And she speaks no tongue I can recognize. Do we take her with us?"

Tauriel looked at the woman. Her face was pinched with pain, and ashen from blood loss. If she had been bitten by a spider, she would be dead long before they reached the halls, but they had to try to get her there alive. "Well, we cannot leave her. Was she bitten?"

"At the speed she was running, I doubt it. Whatever injured her so, I do not think it was a spider."

"Come with us," Tauriel said, beckoning her to follow. "Can you walk?" She mimed two legs walking with her fingers.

The woman eyed her with obvious distrust, but after glancing back the way she had come, she nodded.

"If she cannot keep up, someone will have to carry her," Faelon said.

Tauriel appraised the Edain. Tiny and obviously in pain though she was, there was a stubbornness to her expression that suggested she would not take kindly to being picked up by anyone. "Let us hope it does not come to that."

She took the pouch of water from her belt, taking a careful drink before passing it to the woman. The message was clear: there were neither drugs nor poison in it. The woman gulped half its contents at one go, but did not drain it before handing it back.

She was a curious sort of little creature. Despite the abundant grey in her black hair, she was nowhere near old for an Edain, though she was well past childhood. She seemed near as weathered as a Ranger; perhaps she was some descendant of the Dúnedain, though her complexion, even after having lost what looked to be a great amount of blood, was rather darker than most of that people, and her eyes were not grey, but a startlingly vivid green.

"Come along," Tauriel said, as her company formed a line behind her. "Our walk will be long." They had little in the way of food, but they would have to try to feed her, when it was safe to rest. That, unfortunately, would not be for some while. At least they were less than a day's march from the halls – neither Tauriel nor anyone in her company had ever tried to heal an Edain, and might well do more harm than good if they attempted it now.

The little woman gamely limped along beside her, her face grim and set. She greatly favored her right side, which suggested injury to her ribs – that needed binding, but Tauriel had no idea how tightly one could wrap a wound on an Edain without making it worse. Athelas was of no use for broken bones unless they were properly set first, though when they paused to rest, she could at least attend to the woman's head. Provided she remained conscious that long.

* * *

Lorna had long passed the point of mere pain, and entered a sort of grey half-consciousness that allowed her feet to move without any effort from her brain. She did not want to pass out around these people, no matter how temporarily benign they seemed. For all she knew, they were cannibals.

_I think you can give up on the hallucination hypothesis now_, she thought. This was too vivid, and had remained coherent for too long. Which meant she actually had, somehow, traveled somewhere when she went flying through the windshield, but that was not a thing she could examine in her current state. That could come later, assuming she didn't bleed to death first.

There was something weird about her…companions. She hesitated to call them captors, since they hadn't actually tied her up, or forced her to go with them (though she had little doubt they could have, if they'd felt the need). It wasn't just that they were all so very tall; there was something absolutely inhuman in the way that they moved. Surely that couldn't all be in her abused head. Their clothing was damned peculiar, but having taken a meandering, aimless tour of the States in the last two months, that didn't necessarily mean much. And she'd thought Dublin could be weird.

She was so out of it that she didn't stop walking until the woman beside her caught her arm – her right arm, fortunately. The fog in her mind lifted a little, which was not a good thing; it was all she could do to bite back a yelp of pain.

The woman gave her a look of compassion that might have made her hackles rise, under any other circumstances. As it was, Lorna knew how pathetic she must look right now – though it couldn't be any more pathetic than she felt.

She sat when bidden (through pantomime), watching warily as the woman produced bandages and a jar of some salve from another of the bags at her belt. No translation was needed here – she clearly wanted a look at Lorna's head. By this point, Lorna was in no condition to protest.

She hissed when the woman pressed a damp cloth to her forehead, fighting an immediate instinct to kick her away. Somehow she held still while all the blood was washed off, a process which took a good five minutes. The salve, which smelled pungently of yarrow and something else she couldn't name, stung at first, but swiftly numbed the wound and everything around it. Lorna couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief.

"I know you can't understand a damn word I say," she said, "but thank you. Seriously. Whatever you've got in that jar, you could make a fortune off it."

The woman's expression, of course, was one of incomprehension, but she must have grasped the sentiment behind Lorna's words, because she smiled. She wrapped the length of bandage so expertly around Lorna's head that she must have had quite a bit of practice at it. When she was through, she handed Lorna her water-skin and a hunk of what looked like beef jerky.

Lorna was too damn hungry for anything like actual manners. The half of a sandwich she'd eaten before the wreck hadn't been enough even then, and for the last few hours, her stomach had been threatening to eat itself. She tore into the jerky like a dog, and gulped down the rest of the water.

It was weird, but even surrounded by so many people, her head remained quiet. Maybe her curse hadn't followed her here…if that was the case, she hoped she wouldn't be kicked out. That alone would be worth any manner of other inconvenience, like not being able to understand a damn word anyone said to her.

She was so tired she almost fell asleep sitting up, and swore when the woman helped her to her feet again. Stubborn she might be, but if this trek went on much longer, she didn't know if she'd be able to make it.

* * *

That the Edain was still conscious, let alone walking on her own, was rather surprising. Perhaps she really _was_ some scion of the Dúnedain, for all she did not look it. True, she looked ready to collapse with every step, but somehow she still had not actually done it. Tauriel could not understand her speech, but cursing was recognizable no matter what the language, and she had kept up a running litany for the last five miles. Whatever her native tongue, it was quite beautiful, a sonorous rise and fall that was almost like music.

The King would want to see her before she was sent to the healing wards, provided she did not pass out before they reached the gates. Tauriel was uncertain just how wise that was, but it was not an argument worth having (and losing). The Edain would be incomprehensible no matter what her state of health, but with her current concussion, it would only be worse. Her eyes were glassy, her pupils of uneven size – quite honestly, Tauriel wasn't certain how she was even _alive._

Those dazed eyes widened when they saw the gates, and she said two words: "Holy shit." Tauriel did not know what they meant, but there was wonder in her tone.

"Home," Tauriel said, giving her an encouraging smile. "Come. You must meet our King, and then you can rest."

* * *

Up next: Lorna meets Thranduil. It does not go well.

"Man le carel sí?" = "What are you doing here?"  
"Pedich i lam edhellen?" = "Do you speak Elvish?"


	2. Míthuiscint

In which Lorna meets Thranduil, epic miscommunication ensues, the architecture seems to want to kill her, and she gets to deal with all the fun of nicotine withdrawal in a tiny prison cell.

* * *

Lorna wished she wasn't about three breaths away from keeling over, because this place was goddamn _beautiful._

There were, she knew, many beautiful things and places in the world, though she'd seen almost none of them in person, but never had she even seen pictures of anything quite like this. Had she been a more sentimental sort of person, it might well have moved her to tears, and even as it was, she couldn't help staring like a child. Whatever her redheaded companion had given her had cleared enough of her pain to allow her to fully take in the true magnificence of her surroundings. These carved pillars were what the forest outside ought to look like, the branches and leaves so delicate that she didn't know how they could have done it. Somehow, the air was fresher in here, too, smelling of moss and clean earth rather than mildew. How many people could fit in a place like this? And while she was on the subject, who were they, and _what_ were they?

Because, now that she had something like proper light to see by, she noted that they all had pointed ears. When she had more energy to devote to things like, well, _thinking_, she would wonder about that; for now, not falling on her face was her highest priority. At this point, she didn't care if they sent her to a dungeon or a doctor, so long as she got to _sit down_ soon. The bandage on her forehead felt damp, which suggested the wound had opened up again, and there was a worrying wetness at her right side, too. Her chest hurt, her left shoulder was on fire, and she would absolutely murder someone if it meant she could get her hands on some Vicoden.

Most of the group broke off after a while, leaving her with her red-haired maybe-friend, and the man who had first pointed an arrow at him. Both of them looked uneasy, which did not fill her with anything remotely resembling confidence.

"Dartha," the woman said, as though expecting her to actually understand. Not knowing what else to do, Lorna stayed put, finally daring to sit down. The floor was stone, but she didn't care; just being off her feet was wonderful. Forcing her left arm to move wasn't fun, but she needed to know what the hell was going on with her right side.

As she'd suspected, her fingers came away bloody. She had to already be dead, because otherwise she would have died by now, right? That sort of made sense. To her, at least.

She looked up – very far up – at her remaining companion. He was looking down at her with disapproval, but she was too tired to flip him off. He probably wouldn't understand the gesture anyway. "Oh, don't give me that look," she said, not caring that he'd have no idea what she was saying. "I doubt you'd look any better, if you'd had the day I've just put up with." It wasn't just crashing through the windscreen; there had been a fairly protracted fight with the Men in Grey, which had at least ended worse for them than it had for her and her friend.

Her friend. She was ashamed, now, that she didn't know his name. Could he have landed here with her? Or had they caught him back there? Honestly, she wasn't sure which prospect was worse. At least if he was in the forest he had a chance of survival, but most people were fairly sure the Men in Grey killed their captives. Certainly, nobody was ever seen again once they'd been nabbed by the MiG.

Even now, tired as she was, her head was quiet. She didn't know if it was because her curse was gone, or because all these people were something other than human, but she'd take what she could get.

The woman reappeared, looking grim, and beckoned Lorna to her feet. She looked ready to say something, but probably realized that there was no point. Lorna followed her up a flight of steps that seemed far too long, her gait uneven, going ever slower, until they reached a large flat space with an honest-to-God _throne_. There were the antlers of some giant something hung above it – elk? Moose? She didn't know nearly enough about wildlife, but whatever they belonged to, it was big. And seated on the throne was possibly the creepiest person she had ever seen.

Oh, he was pretty, like everybody else she'd found here, but his eyes were so pale that they reminded her of nothing so much as a zombie. They looked at her with a kind of haughty arrogance, as though she were some insignificant animal, but Lorna was well used to being looked at like that. It was irritating, but not worth getting pissed off over even when she wasn't being held up by a combination of stubbornness and adrenaline.

"Heniach nin?" he asked, staring down his nose at her.

"Nope," she said, with a shrug and a wince. "My name is Lorna, I don't know how I got here, and I'm pretty sure I'm either going to fall apart or bleed to death all over your floor, whichever happens first."

The woman said something, rapid fire, and _damn_ did that language sound like Welsh, even though it obviously wasn't. Lorna turned her head enough to look up at her, and found her face pale and tight. Well, fuck.

"You're not gonna kill me or something, are you?" she asked. "I mean, assuming I'm not actually dead and just haven't realized it yet."

She had no idea what the woman had said, but the king – and he had to be a king, because really, who else dressed like that and sat on a throne – was looking at her with a curiosity she wasn't sure she liked. She didn't particularly care if someone looked at her like she was a bug, so long as they didn't try to pull her legs off. "Man le?" he asked, standing.

Jesus bloody Christ, he was _tall_. At not quite five feet, Lorna was more than used to being the shortest person in any given room by far, but this bloke had to be six-five, at least. She had a deeply-ingrained hatred of tall people that, while not at all his fault, was not helping anything. She scowled up at him, irrationally offended by his height. "I don't understand you, and I'm not going to. You're right terrifying, by the way. Not that you probably need to be told that." Just watching him was making her head hurt again – she could hear nothing, but his very presence was like a band round her brain. There was something _off_ about him, something stranger than anything about the others….

His face. What was with his face? It was pale, and inhumanly smooth, like a mask, but there was something else, something she could almost see, if only he would turn his head – oh, _damn._

"Holy shit, what happened to you?" she asked, despite knowing he wouldn't understand her. She touched her own face in silent sympathy. It was a wound, and a horrible one, but it was somehow there yet not there, and Christ, _now_ was she hallucinating? Had she really hit her head that hard?

He couldn't understand her words, but he must have read her gestures, for he froze. What little color his face had drained from it, and the glare he bent on her could have withered grass.

"Mana quentel?" he snarled, advancing on her with a grace that was disturbing.

"Hold the fuck up," she said, raising both her hands. "It was just a question. Don't you fuckin' look at me like that – I don't care if y' _are_ a zombie, I'll bloody well bite your kneecaps off if you don't take a goddamn step back." Well, now she was scared approximately shitless, but very bad, lifelong habit morphed her fear into good old Irish rage. "I knew a guy who lost an eye once. He'd stick marbles in it, different for every day've the week, and so help me God if you don't stop you'll feel my bloody boot up your arse."

God, her head hurt worse by the second, with every step he took toward her. The son of a bitch _towered_ over her, and didn't seem to care that she had no idea at all what was coming out of his mouth. "All right, mate, I _warned_ you," she snapped, and kicked him – hard.

Her boots were one of the few possessions she'd managed to keep during her flight from Ireland. They were heavy-duty, steel-toed construction worker's boots, and she had likely broken at least one shin with them already. It didn't feel like she'd broken his, but he looked ready to murder her nonetheless. On balance, she couldn't exactly _blame_ him, but still.

"I don't know what your damage is," she snapped, "and I don't really care. I was trying to have some _sympathy_, y' twat, but I'll not make that mistake again. Now _back the fuck off_." She glared up at him through the frizzy tangle of her fringe, and wondered if she was about to die.

To her own surprise, apparently she wasn't. He didn't step back, but nor did he make any move to harm her. He just _stared_ at her with those ungodly eyes, the left of which went from pale blue to blank white and back again, and God, was her head about to split? Even now she heard nothing, saw nothing that was not her own, but it was like his very presence had grabbed her brain and _squeezed_ it—

_Sod it all_, her consciousness said, and finally gave up.

* * *

Tauriel genuinely had no idea what had just happened. Never, ever had she seen her king so infuriated, and she had no idea _why_.

Nor did she dare ask. She caught the Edain woman before she could hit the floor – her head was bleeding again – and waited in petrified silence for her king to do or say something.

"Who told her?" he asked, the words a soft, deadly whisper.

"Told her what, my lord?"

He looked at her sharply, as though trying to read her very fëa, but he must have realized she honestly had no idea what he meant.

"Put her in the dungeon," he said. "I will decide what to do with her later." He turned on his heel, stalking down the staircase.

"My lord, she needs a healer," Tauriel called after him.

"So send one to the dungeon. I do not want her at liberty in my kingdom."

Tauriel glanced at Faelon, who looked every bit as terrified as she felt. "To the dungeon, then," she said, lifting the Edain into her arms. The woman was surprisingly heavy for her small size; she was likely more muscled than she appeared. Whatever she had said or done to provoke the King, she had not done it intentionally, if her initial reaction was any indication. She'd been terrified, too, and Tauriel couldn't blame her; she could not imagine what King Thranduil must look like to an Edain. He was intimidating enough even to his own subjects. Had the woman not reacted with violence, she might not be ending her day in the dungeons – but then, perhaps nothing could have prevented that. For it was not only anger that had blazed in the King's eyes.

It was fear, too.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she had no idea where she was. And she was riding a high so steep that she didn't really care.

She opened her eyes and found herself confronted by a stone ceiling. Whatever she was lying on was soft enough – certainly softer than the van she'd been living in the last two months – and she was warm, clean, and dry, all of which were bonuses her life did not often have all at once.

She lifted her head, waiting for a stab of pain, and was relieved when there was none. Her little room had no windows, and the only door was made of iron bars. Prison again. Brilliant.

Very carefully she sat up, dislodging the heavy blanket that had been laid over her. Her clothes had been taken – she pitied the poor bastard tasked with _that_ job, as it had been over a week since she could afford to do laundry – and been replaced with some kind of thick green nightgown or dress. When she swung her bare feet to the floor, it proved to be at least six inches too long.

Her head didn't hurt, but neither did her ribs or shoulder, and she'd dislocated it enough to know that it ought to be sore no matter how many painkillers she'd been pumped full of. In fact, _none_ of her usual aches and twinges were to be found – and she had quite a few, despite her age, thanks to a lifetime of hard living.

She tiptoed to the door of her cell, peering out. There was a damn _waterfall_ outside, and the sound of its rushing was soothing. If she had to land in prison again, at least this was a sight prettier than her first stint.

She spotted a guard outside, and gave him a small wave. It was probably best to appear as harmless as possible, if she was ever to get out of here. Although, if it was a choice between the cell and a forest full of bloody great spiders, she'd pick the cell, thank you very much.

Where the hell _was_ she? Oh, the world had got weird as hell the last six months, but this was well beyond weird. This was unreal.

Oh, Christ, what if it really was unreal? There were other people out there like her – it stood to reason that at least a few of them actually knew how to use their curse. What if this all seemed so real because it was being constructed for her by someone else, and her body was comatose in a military bunker somewhere?

The thought was so horrifying that it drove her to her knees, because she had no way of knowing. Were her actions even her own? Well, okay, she hadn't done anything glaringly unlike her yet, but if everyone and everything around her was being controlled by someone else…

"Oh," she said softly, "_shite_."

* * *

Thranduil had given orders that he be notified whenever the Edain woman woke. He had questions, and they were going to be answered.

He'd summoned the eldest of his lore-masters, an ellon who knew nearly every tongue that had ever been spoken in Middle-Earth. The woman's complexion suggested she might be some manner of Southron, though her facial features and eyes were wrong for it.

How had she discerned what lay beneath the surface of his skin? Very few now living knew of it; even Legolas did not. Somehow she had seen or sensed it, and it had left her stricken – as well it should.

Given the report the healers had brought him, he was rather surprised she had lived through the night – that she had even survived the march back to his halls. Four broken ribs, a punctured lung, and a fractured skull – Edain were not normally so resilient. Perhaps Tauriel was right in speculating that she had Dúnedain blood.

She looked well enough when the guards brought her to his study, dressed in clothes that were all far too big for her. He did not wonder why Faelon had thought her a child at a distance. Yes, _physically_ she looked fine, but her expression was deeply, deeply disturbed. Just how old was she? With Edain, it was so difficult to tell. Certainly nowhere near as old as her wild hair would suggest. There were few lines on her face, though it had clearly seen its share of weather. Her eyes were no aid in guessing; they were so vivid a green as to be unsettling rather than anything approaching pleasant.

She sat when he bade her, still looking so troubled that he wondered if she even fully registered she had been spoken to. The look she bent on him was one he could only describe as existential anguish, and he wondered what had caused it.

"I am bringing my lore-master to speak with you," he said, despite knowing she would not understand a word. "What you tell him will determine your fate."

She winced when he approached, pressing the heel of her left hand to her temple, and he stopped. Could it be that his proximity caused her actual, physical pain? He stepped forward again and she pressed harder, giving him a tired glare. What she said needed no translation: stop.

Stop he did, returning to the far side of the table. That was not a test that should be conducted until _after_ she had spoken with Idhrenion. Sure enough, the pain faded from her expression once he was at a distance again. It would be fascinating if it were not so unsettling.

"There is something wrong with you, Edain woman," he said. "Ettelëa do I name you – Stranger. I detest mysteries within my kingdom."

She glared at him again, but it was halfhearted; she was still obviously deeply troubled, and something told him it had nothing whatsoever to do with him. He found that oddly irksome, since he was certainly more than troubled by _her_.

Idhrenion chose that moment to enter, saving him from his thoughts. The ellon had served Thranduil's father before him, and had been as irascible then as he was now – though at the moment he was also visibly curious.

"Is this the Edain woman?" he asked, eying her critically. "Are we sure she _is_ a woman? I didn't realize they could be so…small."

She might not know what he was saying, but she must have guessed, for the look she gave him was thoroughly unimpressed. When she spoke, her tone was flat and sarcastic, as well as weary.

"Do you know her tongue?" Thranduil asked.

"No," Idhrenion said, his curiosity turning to fascination. "Child, what is your name?"

She sighed, and launched into a long speech that seemed to contain a great deal of invective. The truly interesting thing was that she seemed to be switching languages, as though trying to do with them what they meant to do with her. Idhrenion's presence seemed to pain her as much as Thranduil's, if her expression was any indication.

Their failure to understand made her more agitated by the moment, until she hopped off the chair and started pacing the floor. Thranduil noted with some amusement that the hem of her dress was uneven – she had likely had to rip off quite a bit, to avoid tripping over it. She gesticulated wildly as she spoke, volume increasing –

-until, with a tearing shriek of metal, the heavy iron candelabra crashed to the floor.

Her utterly graceless dodge would have been comical if Thranduil hadn't been so badly startled himself. This time her glare was reproachful, as if he had somehow done it on purpose.

Had Idhrenion been mortal, Thranduil would have feared for his heart. As it was, the old Elf looked quite shocked. "Well," he said, looking at the wreck of the candelabra. It had hit the floor so hard the stone had cracked in places, spraying hot wax everywhere. "I have no idea what she is saying, my lord. As she is Edain, it might be best to send her to Esgaroth, with her own kind."

"She knows about the scar, Idhrenion."

If Idhrenion had been surprised before, he was shocked now. "_How?_" he asked. "How could she – and how do you know she does?"

"I know," Thranduil sighed, glancing at her. She had fetched up beside the fireplace, and as she seemed determined to stay there, he might as well let her be. "I saw her expression. And until I can speak with her, until I know just what she sensed, and how, I cannot let her go. You must teach her Sindarin. She seems as frustrated by her inability to communicate as we are – likely she will cooperate with you."

Idhrenion watched him closely, his grey eyes piercing. "There is more, my lord," he said, "isn't there?"

"If I go near her, it seems to cause her pain. Your proximity appears to do the same. Thus far we seem to be the only ones, but she has yet met few of us. Find out what she is, Idhrenion. Once I know, I will know what to do about her."

* * *

Well, now that Lorna had almost literally had the piss scared out of her, maybe she could get away from this creepy, headache-inducing king and go find some breakfast. She would have suspected him of trying to drop that thing on her on purpose, except he'd seemed just as surprised as her. It would have been funny, if she hadn't almost had her head split open like a melon; six inches to the left and they'd be scraping bits of her off the floor.

Evidently he'd decided no, he was not going to understand her, so he waved her away. A guard, silent and unsmiling, led her back to her cell, locking her in securely. As there was nothing in here that could land on her head, she didn't really mind.

Someone had brought breakfast while she was out, and to her relief, it was food she recognized: eggs and sausage, and what she suspected was toast, though she couldn't recognize the bread. She polished it and the glass of sweet, ice-cold water off in less than five minutes, and then she really, really wanted a smoke. She'd had half a pack squashed into the back pocket of her jeans, but she had no way to ask for them. As she'd not had one since last morning, she was already on her way to nicotine withdrawal, which was not something she wanted to experience here. She flopped onto her bed, hands laced behind her head, and tried to think of something else.

Had the falling chandelier been some kind glitch in the Matrix? Was she being punished for working out that someone was mucking about in her head, or was this all real, and it had just been a freak accident? She'd drive herself spare if she worried on it too much – she'd just have to keep watch, to see if she could spot the thread. _Nobody_ could sustain a full mental reality forever.

_God, I hope not_, Lorna thought, drumming her heels on the mattress. Christ, she wanted a smoke. A drink would go down a treat, but what she really needed was a nice lungful of nicotine and carcinogens, dammit.

Staying still just wasn't an option. The cell wasn't large, but it was big enough for her to pace a little, so pace she did, singing a few filthy songs in Irish while she was at it. No doubt her guard thought she was utterly cracked, but there were very few people whose opinions Lorna actually cared about, and he was not one of them.

She didn't know how much time she wasted like that, but her craving was so bad that it was likely less than she thought. At least her guard didn't give her a headache, though she almost wished he would – at least it would be a distraction. Whatever drug or medicine they'd given her last night was still holding fast – none of her injuries pained her. She couldn't even feel any weakness in her left arm, which ought to have been impossible. If she had to be in prison again, at least her jailors took good care of her.

"Sure God do I wish you understood me," she sighed, wrapping her arms around the bars of her door and peering up at the guard – who, naturally, didn't look at her. All the people she'd seen so far looked weirdly alike – tall and white and too pretty for their own good, with those pointed ears. Like Vulcans, or Elves. Had there been any sign of anything resembling technology, she would have suspected them all of being really, really into plastic surgery. God only knew what she must look like to the lot of them.

_You're in a bit of a quandary, Lorna_, she thought, sitting on the floor and staring at him – sooner or later he'd be so creeped out he'd have to look at her. She didn't want to stay here forever, but she sure as hell didn't want to go back out into Spiderland. Going _home_ was also out of the question, though, considering what she'd left behind.

_God_ damn,_ I want a smoke._

* * *

When the shift changed, Thranduil had the guard who had been watching the Edain woman report to him.

"I believe she is bored," Lairion said. "She spent the first hour pacing and singing, then sat at the door and chattered at me. When I would not react, she started attempting to poke my boot. I believe she is harmless, my lord, if mildly unsound of mind."

"She showed no sign of pain in your presence?" Thranduil asked.

"No, my lord. The healers have taken good care with her."

That was not what he meant, but he did not feel compelled to explain himself to Lairion. "Very well. Ensure that she is fed and cared for, until I decide what to do with her."

Lairion bowed, and left him to his thoughts. So the Edain was not bothered by any in the guard thus far. Granted, she had been wounded when they found her in the forest, but she did not seem to feel true pain in her head until she was confronted with him, and later Idhrenion.

The Forest Guard were, by and large, young by Elven reckoning, few of them having even reached their first millennium. He and Idhrenion were, of course, much older. For now he would keep her near his younger guards, until he discovered why the elder pained her so.

Everything would likely be much simpler if he sent for Mithrandir, but that Thranduil did not want to do unless he had no other choice. Elrond and Galadriel might be on friendly terms with the Istari, but Thranduil was not over-fond of him – not that he was over-fond of anyone.

Elrond. Once they had discovered who and what the Edain woman was, if it was safe to allow her to leave, Thranduil would send her to Elrond. He was notorious for taking in strays of all sorts. He'd likely have all sorts of fun with this one.

* * *

So, I didn't start Lorna off in Rivendell because I felt I'd be following too closely in other writers' footsteps. It really would be the best place for a newcomer to Middle-Earth to start out, but I'm cruel to Lorna in her canon, so of course I've got to be a bastard to her in a fic as well. Even if she's let out of her cell, Thranduil's halls are still basically a prison, since Mirkwood is in no way safe for a lone human with zero wilderness survival skills.

"Heniach nin?" = "Do you understand me?"

"Man le?" = "Who are you?"  
"Mana quentel?" = "What did you say?"


	3. Suantraí Meisce

In which Sindarin lessons somehow end in drunken pub songs, Lorna wonders if there are no old people because the Elves cannibalize them all, and the consequences of the proximity of older Elves become somewhat more alarming.

* * *

By the time dinner arrived, Lorna was ready to gnaw her own knuckles off. She was jittery and restless and perfectly willing to shank someone if it would get her a cigarette.

Her food was brought by the red-haired woman who had bandaged her head last night, so Lorna hoped she'd be willing to listen – so to speak. She touched her dress, and mimed pulling trousers on, hoping she could convey, _Can I have my clothes?_

Bless the redhead, she seemed to understand immediately. Unfortunately, she also shook her head.

Lorna thought a moment. Maybe they'd gone through her pockets – she certainly would have done. She held up her hands, her fingers forming a rectangle roughly the size of a cigarette packet. Her lighter was somewhat more difficult to mime, mostly because she was pretty sure they'd have no idea what it was, let alone how to use it.

That got her no reaction save confused sympathy, and she gave up. It wasn't this lady's fault that neither of them knew what the hell the other was saying, and since she was the only person who hadn't yet looked at Lorna like she was either a curiosity or an insect, Lorna wouldn't take it out on her.

One of the other guards, on the other hand…he'd given her much the same expression of scornful dismissal as his king, but he couldn't carry it off half so well. She'd sat at the door and happily called him every insult in every language she half knew. It probably took a good half hour, and the line of his shoulders had grown ever tenser. None of these people gave much away, but they could sort of be read if you tried hard enough.

Dinner, at least, was every bit as delicious as breakfast and lunch had been: some kind of thick stew with meat and potatoes, along with bread, an apple, and more of that strangely sweet water. This time she sat on the floor and ate more slowly, savoring her food so that she could try to go more than five seconds without thinking about cigarettes. So far, it wasn't working.

The red-haired lady was still there, watching her expectantly. Was she going to be taken somewhere? She'd give her left kidney to be let out of this cell, even for a little while, because pacing in such a confined space had grown more aggravating by the hour. She'd possibly sell her spleen for some trousers, too; a lot of Lorna's adolescent years were hazy, but she didn't think she'd ever worn a dress before. They just weren't practical for anything she'd ever done in her life, and she was suffering for it now – even having ripped off about six inches of hem, she still tripped over it half the time. This woman had trousers and some kind of tunic, so obviously dresses weren't mandatory for women here.

Thought of being allowed freedom, however temporarily, made her eat faster, though she squirreled away some bread for later. She heaved an audible sigh of relief when the redhead, who was approaching almost-friend status, opened the door. "Thanks, mate," she said. "We going somewhere?"

They were indeed. Lorna tried not to gawk as she had the night before, but she was pretty sure she was doing a bad job of it. The steps felt endless, but at least they were wide and shallow, and the icy spray of the waterfall misted her face. It was welcome; she'd grown up in a port city, and being too long away from water didn't sit well with her. The ceiling was so dizzyingly high above that she suspected they really were in a cave, not just something knocked up to look like one. Moonlight filtered in through some unseen fissure, painting the top of a nearby column silver.

Another guard fell in behind her, as if these people thought she was any sort of actual threat. Maybe they really _had_ gone through her pockets, and found all her little deterrents against muggers and car-jackers.

The walk was long, but Lorna didn't care. It meant she could stop thinking about smoking for a while at least, and mercifully, the stairs soon reached a long, high stone platform. How had they got it so smooth? There wasn't a single imperfection beneath her bare feet, but it wasn't concrete, either. It was cool, but not unpleasantly cold.

Fortunately, this was not the way she'd been taken to meet with His Royal Creepiness, so she probably wasn't going to have to deal with that (literal) headache again. No, when they finally reached a room, it proved to be the most amazing library she'd ever seen.

Like practically everywhere else in this place, it was huge, so much so that she couldn't tell where the far walls were. The bookshelves had to be at least thirty feet high, crammed with scrolls and leather-bound volumes. She could smell the bindings, as well as the bittersweet scent of old paper.

A large fireplace faced the door, with several big desks in front of them. One of them held a stack of what was probably parchment, as well as a pot of black ink and an actual quill.

"Old-school," Lorna muttered, lapsing into an Americanism, though she wasn't surprised. Nothing here had yet suggested she'd find a ballpoint pen any time soon.

The lady guard gestured to the massive leather chair, which Lorna had to jump a little to sit on. It seemed like they wanted to see if she could write – which, given that this was a quill she was dealing with, might be a negatory. Lorna flat-out refused to look illiterate in front of this woman, whose opinion, she suspected, she _would_ come to care about, so she shoved back her too-long sleeves, picked up the quill, and experimentally had at it.

She managed her name, more or less: _Lorna Saoirse Donovan_. Her penmanship was never anything to write home about at the best of times, but hell, she tried.

The other guard looked at it, frowned, and took the parchment with him when he let. It would just figure if their language had a wholly different alphabet, too.

The woman gave her an encouraging smile, so she picked up the quill again and wrote the alphabet on the next piece of parchment, upper and lowercase, as carefully as she could. She left blobs of ink in her wake, but at least it was legible to her. On a whim, she also wrote 'ink', 'paper', 'quill', 'fire', and 'desk'. If nothing else, they could trade words for objects.

The guard returned, this time with another man, and Lorna realized something: everyone she'd seen here so far looked about the same age. It was no surprise she'd not seen any children while in gaol, but were there no old – or even middle-aged – people? Had she stumbled upon some weird cult that ate the elderly?

The second man put a piece of parchment in front of her, which contained writing she in no way recognized. She knew what a great many alphabets looked like, even if she couldn't read them, but this was totally unfamiliar. She shook her head, and pointed at her own writing, which made her wince a little. Even if she tried to copy his, it would probably look like a disaster.

He tapped the scrawl of her name, a question in his blue eyes – creepily pale blue eyes, come to that, rather like the king's. "That's me," she said. "My name is Lorna." She touched her chest. "Lorna." God, this felt like some medieval parody of _Tarzan. Me Lorna, you kind of look like girl._ Hey, she wasn't here to judge. A bloke could wear whatever he wanted. It was just slightly irritating that most of these men would make prettier women than her.

"Lorna," he said, turning the word over. He pronounced it in two syllables for some reason, _Lor-naa._

"Lorna," she said again, and pointed at him. "You?"

He gave her a momentary look of incomprehension. "Legolas," he said at last.

"And her?" Lorna pointed at the lady.

"Tauriel."

"Lorna, Legolas, Tauriel. Good, now we know each others' names. Too bloody bad we don't know anything else." She was tempted to go inhale smoke from the fireplace, if it would settle her nerves. She could probably concentrate better without the jitters of nicotine deprivation.

He pointed at her writing again, and she thought he might be asking her what language it was. "English," she said. "I speak English and Irish, and I can butcher Welsh and Russian if I have to. I can read French, but I can't speak it for shit."

"English." Legolas left, and came back with yet_ another _man, and this one looked young even compared to them – if he was more than seventeen, Lorna would eat the left shoe she did not currently have. There was a curiosity in his eyes that was close to unholy, which did nothing at all for her peace of mind.

"Lorna," he said. "Arandur i eneth nín. Arandur," he repeated, touching his chest.

"Hi," she said.

Legolas said something to Arandur, and vanished with a silence that was downright creepy. Tauriel gave her another encouraging smile, and followed. Brilliant. It wasn't that Lorna knew Tauriel well – or at all, really – but at least she was a familiar face.

Arandur grabbed one of the other fat chairs and dragged it up to sit beside her – the desk was so large that it wasn't uncomfortably crowded. His presence didn't trigger any headaches, which was a nice bonus. He had all the enthusiasm of a student at university, and it relaxed her a little. Though he, like the rest of them, was a good foot taller than her, it was impossible to be intimidated by someone who looked so very young.

He took the parchment on which she'd written the alphabet, and what followed was a bit like two drunk children trying to learn to read together. He seemed to have difficulty pronouncing several of the letters, which made her think that his language didn't often use them any way but silent. His name sounded like it ought to be spelled 'Arandur', so she wrote it out, and wrote her own underneath it, so he could compare letters.

His delight was almost childlike, and completely adorable. He actually reminded her a bit of Kevin, one of the younger teenagers in the gang she'd run with during her own adolescence. Unlike most of them (including Lorna herself), Kevin had a real brain, and could have gone on to do great things at Uni, if he'd lived. Nobody knew why, but he'd put a bullet in his brain when he was nineteen, not long before Lorna went to prison herself. This kid she would have patience with, even if several of the guards were not likely to find her much fun in the future.

"Desk," she said, touching the desk. "This is a desk. Desk."

He caught on almost immediately. "Sarno."

"Sarno," she repeated. Well, now maybe they could get somewhere. She learned in short order how to name all the things around her, and hoped she was learning them all right. She was also fairly sure that 'i eneth ní' meant something along the lines of 'my name is'. Arandur laughed when she repeated the phrase over and over, but she couldn't really blame him – with her heavy accent, he could probably barely understand her. In her first few weeks in the States, she'd been asked more than once if she could speak English. It had made her laugh at first, but after the fifth time, it wasn't nearly so funny.

"Lorna is ainm dom," she said, figuring she might as well throw some Irish into the mix. "Ba mhaith liom ag caitheamh tobac." _My name is Lorna. I want to smoke_. God, did she ever.

He blinked at her. A smart kid like him would probably pick up in short order that she was speaking two separate languages. Lorna had little doubt that most of these people probably thought she was utterly backward, and in a lot of ways she had to admit they were right, but she was good with languages, dammit. And mixing drinks, but she doubted that would be a skill much called for here.

Arandur tried to repeat what she'd said, and utterly failed. He looked so offended by his failure that Lorna burst out laughing. "Don't worry over it, mate," she said. "Irish is a hard language for almost anyone not born to it. And you don't want a smoke anyway."

He looked as though he wasn't sure if he should be insulted or not, and that only made her laugh harder. "I'm not laughing _at_ you, kid. Not really. It's only I've never seen any've you bugger anything up yet, and it's nice to know you can."

Evidently he decided she wasn't taunting him, for he smiled.

* * *

At the end of the day, Legolas had very little to report to his father. The Woodland Realm was quiet for now, and while that was a good thing, it did not make for very interesting work – or interesting reports. Legolas inevitably felt guilty for finding it dull, but he suspected his father found it so as well.

"Did you hand our resident Edain to Arandur?" the king asked.

"I did. Her name is Lorna. When last I saw them, they appeared to be attempting to translate a drinking song from her language to Sindarin."

Thranduil didn't do anything nearly so plebian as roll his eyes, but he didn't need to. "Tell me when she is even semi-coherent in our tongue."

* * *

Lorna had expected to be sent back to her cell after a short while. She had certainly _not_ expected for her and Arandur to gain several onlookers – and later, participants – but gain them they had. Four of them looked like they must also work in the library, but two were the guards who had been sent to fetch her, and one, she suspected, was the guard who had been sent to fetch _them._

She never was quite sure how they'd all got to singing drinking songs – and what they sang could be nothing else – but eventually some librarian snuck in a bottle of the most potent alcohol she'd ever tasted in her life, which was really, really saying something. It tasted like wine, but it had the kick of rotgut vodka, and it went to her head like she was a lightweight of fifteen.

These people were all markedly less ethereally inhuman when trying – and utterly failing – to parrot back lyrics in English and Irish, though she doubtless sounded just as barmy to them. Their own language was so musical that hearing them stumble over both of hers was more hilarious than it probably ought to be. She wished she had a bodhran, or the guitar she'd been forced to sacrifice to the MiG. In her opinion, nobody on Earth could party like the Irish, and booze and drunken dancing needed no translation. Not that she could dance even when sober, but still. There was a point in there somewhere, if only her alcohol-addled brain could find it.

"Y'know, you're all right," she said, to the group at large. She'd sat herself on the desk, back to the warmth of the fireplace, and she was feeling quite at one with the world. "I can't really blame you for locking me up, given that I kicked your king and all, and I've eaten and slept better here than I have in months. I'd still like some bloody trousers, though."

They grasped that she was pleased, if nothing else. One of the librarians poured her what amounted to a shot, and she knocked it back with a slightly slurred, "Sláinte!"

"Sláinte!" they chorused, and actually pronounced it within screaming distance of right. Lorna was impressed.

Quite suddenly, the entire lot of them froze, so she did, too. Even on the desk, she was too damn short to see what had spooked – oh. Shit.

The stern-faced man she'd met in the King's study was glowering at them like, well, a disapproving librarian. If looks could kill, they'd likely all be incinerated.

Nobody said anything, and Lorna couldn't blame them. She wouldn't have dared, even if he'd been able to understand her. He reminded her a bit too much of the headmaster she'd had at primary school – the one who hadn't cared that her homework wasn't done because she'd been up half the night taking care of her brother, after he'd had a date with Da's fist. No defense anyone might offer would change the outcome.

When he stepped toward them, their synchronized retreat would have been funny, if not for his expression. The only place for her to retreat would be into the fire, and in any case she feared she was too drunk to stand.

His next step brought a sharp pain to her temple. It only grew worse the closer he came; by the time he reached the desk, it was all but blinding.

"What're you _doing_?" she demanded, pressing her hands to her head. "Sure Christ, _stop_ it!"

One of the guards spoke to him, low and worried, and was totally ignored. The son of a bitch wasn't backing off, and Lorna was in no condition at all to make him. She grabbed the ink and threw it at him anyway, for want of any better weapon, but he grabbed her ankle before she could haul herself to the floor. Yet again there was that stare of a fascinated entomologist, but Lorna was in no mood to be a bug.

"I said _stop!_" she snarled, and kicked him in the face with her other foot. Barefoot, it wouldn't do nearly as much damage as she'd like, but it got the job done; he released her ankle, giving her a glare that was absolutely murderous.

"I've done nothing to you," she said, staggering off the edge of the desk and onto her feet, more or less. "Knock it off, for the love've Christ." The hot saltiness of blood touched her lips – Jesus, was her nose bleeding? She wiped it, and her fingers came away red.

That must have startled him, for some of the fury left his face. Not that she cared; the pain in her head was so horrible she couldn't even stay standing. Arandur caught her before she could fall on her arse, at least. When unconsciousness took her, it was a mercy.

* * *

Well, that was intriguing…and disturbing. Thranduil thought he needed to change his assessment of his Edain guest; how much of a danger could she be, if the presence of older Elves caused her actual physical harm?

Currently she was in the care of the youngest healers, who were hopefully right when they said she would recover. Oh, in the short-term she would do him a favor by dying, but where there was one Edain, you usually found another sooner or later. If there were more like her, he wanted to know what _she_ was before he found them.

The healers had assured him that her hröa and fëa were both Edain. She was, in all respects tangible and intangible, a daughter of Men. And yet…

And yet.

Thranduil sighed. If this kept up, he was going to _have_ to send for Mithrandir.

Idhrenion, who was already forming a bruise on his left cheek, had brought the numerous pieces of parchment that she and Arandur had written on. The alphabet, predictably, was as alien as her, and her at tempts at mimicking Tengwar were cringe-worthy. Clearly she could write, and he suspected her current work was only so very poor because she was unfamiliar with such fine materials.

"Did she really kick you in the face?" he asked, setting the parchment aside. He knew he should not be amused by that, but Idhrenion had been a very harsh teacher when Thranduil was young, and some part of him still a child wished he could have seen it.

"She did, my lord," Idhrenion said grimly. "I had not realized I was causing her so very much distress, or I would not have tried to grab her. I did not mean to do her harm, but I think she believes I did."

"I know you did not. For the sake of the library, I believe I will keep her out of it for now, and send Arandur to teach her privately once she has recovered."

"Will you send for Mithrandir, my lord?"

Thranduil sighed. "Not yet. That wizard causes trouble wherever he goes, and we have enough here already."

When Idhrenion left him, he went to the healing wars. They were all but empty, housing only a few victims of spider-bit as well as the Edain – Lorna, she had a name, if an odd one – so he could speak with the healers without interruption.

If Lorna believed Idhrenion had intentionally harmed her, she might prove less than cooperative. There _were_ a few Elves she seemed to marginally trust, so they would be the ones working with her.

The healer Galasríniel was the eldest of those they dared allow near her. She had just passed her seven hundredth year, and was one of the best the halls had had in centuries. "She sleeps, my lord," she said. "Very deeply so. In truth, I do not know what happened to her – only that she lost a great deal of blood she could ill afford to lose. It took far longer than it ought to staunch her nose."

That was not encouraging. "When well she wake?"

Galasríniel winced. "I do not know. I have treated Edain in the past, but without knowing the true cause of her malady, I cannot say when she will wake, or _if_ she will wake. Her fëa is…unsettled."

"What do you mean?" he asked, peering through the door. The Edain was indeed very unconscious; he had always been somewhat disturbed by the fact that they slept with their eyes closed. It made them look dead.

"I believe she may be more of a stranger than we thought. Her fëa is trying to…_leave_. I do not know why, or even how. Perhaps it seeks to return to wherever she came from."

Thranduil was sorely tempted to tell her to let it, but no healer would ever dream of allowing someone to die if it was within their power to prevent it. Even a king could not issue such and order lightly, and while the Edain was a confusing thorn in his side, she had done nothing to deserve it.

"Her name is Lorna," he said. "Ensure she does not die."

* * *

Elvish:

"i eneth nín" = "my name is"

Irish:  
"Sláinte" = "Cheers."


	4. Go Raibh Botún

In which Lorna makes friends, mutual linguistic exchange occurs, Thranduil does something he _really_ regrets, and Lorna is still not convinced they're not secretly eating their old people.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she wished she hadn't. This morning was sure a hell of a lot different than the last – and not just because of the killer morning-after.

There was surprisingly little pain, which she was grateful for – no, the worst of it was the peculiar sensation that someone had tried to unscrew the top of her skull and yank out her brain. It was a tingle, almost like a limb that had fallen sleep, except in her head.

It took her a moment to realize she was not in her cell. This room was much larger, as was the bed, as well as more comfortable. It smelled strongly of herbs, sweet and bitter – she was probably in whatever passed for hospital here.

That made no sense. That arsehole had hurt her last night – probably badly, given that she was here – and there was no way it wasn't deliberate. He'd stayed back before, like the king, and Lorna couldn't imagine he'd not been told why he had to.

Sitting up made her dizzy, but she needed a better look at her surroundings. For a sickroom, this was surprisingly pretty; the stone walls had delicate carvings of trees etched into them, and the mantle over the fireplace held an assortment of glass bottles and different sizes and colors, shining like jewels. It was all very lovely, but she missed _daylight._ She'd spent much of her life roaming about in all weathers, and while it was nice to be warm and dry, part of her would kill for the feel of damp Dublin air on her face.

A woman stepped through the door, and her strikingly blue eyes widened. Her urgent flow of words was, of course, incomprehensible, but their meaning was clear: Lorna needed to lay down again. Bugger.

Lay she did, since fighting it wasn't worth the effort. There were a dozen questions she didn't know how to ask, so for once she held still like a good patient while the woman laid a hand on her forehead. It was a surprisingly cool hand, and a smooth one, and Lorna shivered. Though the fire was well built up, and though her blankets and nightgown were heavy, she was far too cold, which probably meant she had a fever. Bloody brilliant. She'd only really been sick a few times in her life, and it was not an experience she wanted to repeat here.

There was unexpected compassion in the (doctor's?) eyes as she adjusted Lorna's pillows, drawing the blankets up over her shoulders. There _were_ people here who were kind to her, which made Arsehole's very public attempt at murder all the more baffling.

Was that the thread? Was he the thing that would help her unravel the illusion, if illusion it was? She didn't particularly want to go near enough to find out.

The doctor/nurse/whatever actually patted her on the head, though the woman had to be a good five years younger than Lorna. Maybe they really _did_ eat their old people. Arsehole looked like he might be on the wrong side of forty; maybe they'd eat him soon, and get him out of her hair. That was probably too much to ask for, though.

Her hair. She pulled some of it over her shoulder, inspecting it. It was so fin and unruly that she normally kept it in one long braid, but they'd left it loose here – which at least helped keep her warm. Whatever they'd been washing it with had actually left it _soft_, which was a first. All the people here – even the blokes – had such gorgeous hair, and she supposed it had to be half down to products.

Idly she ran her fingers through it, untangling the surprisingly few knots. If there was one person here willing to try to murder her, there were likely others. She needed to learn enough of the language to get some intel on the forest, and then she had to escape.

* * *

Escape, Lorna soon realized, was going to take a while. It was two whole days before her doctor – whose name, she eventually learned, was Galasríniel – would allow her visitors, and another four to decide she was ready to be released from hospital.

Surprisingly, she was moved not to her cell, but to an actual room – under guard, of course, but since she'd sort of made friends with many of the guards, that was no hardship. Arandur, who looked so relieved by her recovery that she was actually touched, brought books and parchment, and they started her languages-lessons again.

Though her room was small by the standards of this place, it was easily half the size of the house she'd lived in as a child. There was more than enough space for a desk and two chairs, so they could work without everything being jammed together.

Tauriel, bless her, did eventually bring her some trousers, as well as tunic of the sort she herself wore. Someone had altered them so they actually fit properly, too, which made Lorna feel much less like a child playing dress-up. She had damn good timing, too, because two days later Lorna got a visit from Aunt Flo.

This, naturally, presented something of a problem. She had very little in the way of shame, but she also didn't have the words to explain her predicament, and she was hardly going to ask Arandur. The poor kid would probably die of embarrassment. She wound up stuffing a spare set of knickers down her trousers, and cornering the first female guard she saw.

Miming pain in her stomach was enough to get her taken to see the doctor, whose worried expression cleared once she understood the problem. She provided Lorna with some kind of cloth pads, as well as a green glass bottle of something that was probably for cramps (thank God), and sent her on her way. Well. That had been nice and painless, figuratively speaking. In the literal sense, her cramps were awful, and she hoped that medicine was fast-acting, or else focusing on her lessons was not going to be easy.

The language, which was evidently called Sindarin, really was structured remarkably like Welsh. It made it much easier to pick up, speech-wise; the alphabet, on the other hand, was another story entirely. She'd learned to speak Russian from her cellmate, but never had worked out Cyrillic, and she had a feeling it was going to prove the same with this one.

Arandur, of fucking course, was a much better student. He grasped the Roman alphabet easily, and learned English grammar far faster than she could get a handle on Sindarin. At least Irish stymied him, or she would have felt hopelessly inferior.

Some of the guards started getting in on the action, so that on any given evening, she usually had two or three guests. Tauriel, through a mix of Sindarin, broken English, and impromptu sign language, explained that they thought it was a good idea to learn a language that no one outside the halls would know, in case they needed to talk about anything secret in front of outsiders. Lorna wondered just how many of those they found in that forest, before they became spider-chow.

She wasn't entirely sure they wouldn't run across other English-speakers. After all, she was here, and if more of the cursed turned up, these people could be looking at some mammoth – albeit mostly accidental – problems. It was entirely possible no one's curses would work here, if she was any indication, but there was no guarantee. Unfortunately, it was all she could do to utterly slaughter Sindarin, and she would need actual proficiency before she could try to explain the mess that was Earth.

For now, all she could do was worry. She liked most of these people, and even the twats didn't deserve what might happen if an assload of cursed landed on their doorstep. As soon as she could, she'd warn that creepy king – even if she had to do it by proxy, so she wouldn't risk an aneurysm.

There had been no more headaches or nosebleeds since Arsehole, thank God. Arandur had told her his name was Idhrenion, but to her he would always be Arsehole, especially since nobody could convince her he hadn't tried to kill her on purpose.

One evening, perhaps two months into her stay, the guard she'd first met in the forest sat beside her fire, doing something to a boot while listening to her mangle Sindarin with Arandur. He was humming something under his breath, and Lorna burst out laughing when she realized it was a pub song. She'd obviously startled him, for he flushed red as a brick.

"I teach more," she said, knowing that her accent was probably making her already childish Sindarin even more unintelligible. "More song. You lot really are my kind've people," she added in English. "Fuck the nobs – you're the good ones."

Beside her, Arandur choked. Lorna knew that the first things you learned when studying a new language were the swearwords, and she'd taught the guards over a dozen, in English and in Irish. Half of them had turned red as Faelon over there when she explained 'fuck', and she'd laughed so hard she'd fallen off her chair.

"Fuck…as in…fornicate," he struggled a little, swapping between English and Sindarin, "or as 'fuck off'?"

"The second one. One've these days I'll get you to tell someone to fuck off."

He must have understood enough, for his face went red. "No."

"Yes. Just you wait." She stood, and went to grab the heavy journal he had given her, with the instruction to write an account of her days in English and in Tengwar. Her skill with a quill pen had improved, but all that really meant was that her writing no longer looked like a drunk spider had stepped in ink and then wandered across the page. "I'm making note've – _Christ!_" she yelped, barely dodging the book that tumble down and nearly landed on her head. It hit the stone floor with a heavy _thud_, just barely missing her left foot.

"I," she sighed, "am getting really, _really_ tired've that."

It was entirely possible that Arsehole hadn't tried to kill her again because he was waiting for her surroundings do to it for him. It certainly seemed like a plausible idea, at times. Wherever she went, lighting fixtures that had probably sat anchored for centuries broke free, shelves collapsed, and at one point a rogue wine barrel had chased her down the hallway, nearly knocking her off one of those damned high ledges. The guards had laughed about it for weeks, until she learned enough Sindarin to threaten to drown them in the next barrel. They couldn't possibly have felt physically threatened by her, but she'd evidently been vehement enough to worry them.

Faelon said something, which Arandur translated as "bad luck."

"Cursed, more like," she muttered. "Where was I – right. I bet wine you would say 'fuck off' someone in one month." She enunciated as clearly as she could, and he obviously understood her.

"No," he said again, redder than ever. "You must learn Sindarin, stop teacher me English."

"Close enough," she said, and sighed. "Fine. Teach me."

* * *

According to Arandur, the Edain woman was learning as quickly as could be expected of one of her kind. What he did not mention – and did not need to – was that she was also a bad influence on guards and librarians alike.

Tauriel's idea about the Forest Guard and Lorna's language was not without merit, which was why Thranduil permitted it, but he was now forever overhearing them mixing it in with their Sindarin. He did not want them polluting their own tongue with foreign slang, but they seemed determined to do just that. It did not help that a great deal of it was quite obviously vulgar. When asked about some of the words, the guards became suspiciously evasive, and he realized that he had to kill this poison at its source. If his own people were too uncomfortable to explain, surely Lorna would be far worse. Perhaps having to do so would cure her of teaching them anything further.

As they still did not know what went wrong when she was too near one of the older Elves, he could not confront her as he would like to, but the throne room was quite large. When first he met her, she had not evidenced any great pain until he'd left the throne, so it ought to be safe to bring her there. As things were still unusually quiet within the forest, the bulk of the Guard could be summoned as well – Thranduil was certain that part of the problem lay in the fact that they were as bored as he was.

Quiet and calm were good for his kingdom and his people, and he would never wish for strife – but all the same, it could be dull. Both guards and Edain appeared to be growing far too complacent.

He told Faelon to assure Lorna she was not in any danger, intentionally or otherwise. Terrorizing the woman would not be at all enjoyable, even if she _had_ kicked him. When he'd finally calmed down after the fact, he realized that she had done it out of fear, not malice.

He didn't want her _fearing_ anything now, but she ought to feel a little shame for perverting such a language as Sindarin – and his guards needed to be shamed for allowing it. An Edain might not know any better, but any Guard of the Woodland Realm ought to. He intended to see that they learned it now.

* * *

Lorna was not best pleased at being summoned by King Creepy – whose name, she only now discovered, was Thranduil. Even with Faelon's assurance that he would stay too far away to harm her, she couldn't help feeling incredibly uneasy. She hadn't seen him since her second day here, and she couldn't imagine that being summoned now could mean anything good.

The fact that Faelon was nervous didn't help at all. When she questioned him in her halting Sindarin, he told her that he did not know what was going on – only that the Guard had all been called to the throne room, and she with them.

_And the king _doesn't_ plan to kill me?_ Uneasy or not, now she was curious. Maybe she was finally going to see an old person, before they got eaten.

(Because seriously, _no_ old people? None at all? That just wasn't natural.)

The throne room was every bit as hellishly impressive as she remembered, and at least this time she wasn't half dead. Dozens of guards were already here, most of whom she knew, and all of them looked nervous. Looking at their King, she didn't wonder why. He was just as goddamn terrifying at third viewing as he had been on the first two, but this time there was more than annoyance and disdain on his face: there was something worryingly like mischief. There was probably no way this was going to end well for anyone but him.

Faelon stopped her at the edge of the platform, far enough away that her head stayed pain-free. She felt, a little absurdly, like a student called up before the world's worst headmaster. And when he spoke, what she understood of his words only amplified the feeling.

It was difficult to follow, but he seemed to be chewing out the guards for picking up her swearwords. He obviously wanted her to understand, because he spoke slowly, his voice rolling over a crowd that was growing so uncomfortable Lorna could practically taste it.

He said something she couldn't make out, and Faelon stiffened beside her. Arandur, looking ill, handed the king a piece of parchment, cast her an anguished look, and disappeared into the crowd again.

Thranduil made a show of reading it, to her irritation. Finally he lowered the page, and asked, "What does 'cab trasna ort thúin' mean?"

Oh._ Oh._ She knew the Sindarin, as well as the almost-unrecognizable Irish, and so knew what he was doing. She'd had a teacher once who tried to do the same thing – call her out on reading all the profanity in the notes she passed, hoping to embarrass her. If there was anything in the world that could embarrass Lorna, she hadn't yet found it, and she certainly wasn't about to find it here, under that pale, smug gaze. Looking him dead in the eye, she said, "Go fornicate with yourself sideways."

The collected, horrified gasp of the guards almost made her laugh, but Thranduil's shocked expression made it so much better. Clearly, he had not expected her to answer so easily. She had to pinch her hand to keep a straight face, but she managed it. Somehow.

After a very long, very awkward pause, he said, "A bhastaird bhreallghnúisisgh."

"You cunt-faced bastard," she replied promptly.

Faelon twitched beside her. Sindarin had no direct translation for 'cunt', and he was no doubt mortified at the thought of her explaining it to his king. God, in some ways these people were worse than Puritans.

To her inner glee, Thranduil walked right into it. "What is a cunt?"

She cast a glance at Faelon, who had shut his eyes in silent pain. "The genitals of a female," she said blandly.

He was an incredibly difficult bastard to read, but Lorna thought that Thranduil might be regretting this. If that paper was as full as she suspected, he was going to regret it a whole lot more before it was over.

* * *

_This_ was not at all what Thranduil had expected, and certainly not what he had wanted.

To hear such language uttered by any but a soldier was bad enough, but, after the initial shock, he could have borne it. No, the problem was that this maddening Edain could say such things in so large a crowd and not even blush. She stood like a scholar called to recite – feet planted the width of her shoulders, hands clasped behind her back – and looked him in the eye while translating what sounded to him like, "Go fornicate with a goat."

Even worse, she was very obviously enjoying herself. Her expression was the picture of innocence, but those unsettling eyes danced with suppressed mirth. She was practically daring him to give up, and that he would not do.

He came close, however, when he reached a phrase for which she did not have enough Sindarin to convey. That, unfortunately, was when the _gestures_ started.

'Snaidhm bundúin ort' evidently translated as 'may your anus be knotted', but there was an additional line that was, if her incredibly vulgar sign language was to be believed, about shoving a flaming stick up someone's rectum. By the time she had finished pantomiming _that_ one, he was horrified to feel his face heat.

And that cursed Edain must have seen it, for she bit the inside of her cheek. He could tell that she was trying not to laugh at his discomfort in front of all of his guards, but it was a losing battle.

"I think that is quite enough for one day," he said, wrapping his dignity around him like a cloak. "I will not hear such language from any of you again. Including you," he added, giving Lorna a pointed glower.

She didn't respond, but he let it go, because he was quite sure she would have burst out laughing if she'd tried. He stalked away in high dudgeon, but was not quite far enough away to avoid hearing her distant hilarity.

* * *

Lorna sat on the floor and laughed until she cried. None of the others would admit to finding it funny, but oh God, never, ever would she forget Thranduil's expression. _Ever_. It would keep her warm on cold nights for years to come, she was sure. It might only have been for a moment, but all the arrogance had been gobsmacked straight off his face – and she wondered if that had ever happened before.

"He start it," she said in Sindarin, wiping her streaming eyes on her sleeve. "He, not me." Faelon helped her to her feet, looking totally scandalized, and his expression was enough to set her off all over again. "Sure Christ, I'll never forget that," she said in English. "Not until my bloody dying day."

Arandur shook his head, guiding her from the room. He wasn't fooling her – there was a smile somewhere under his carefully-controlled expression. One of these nights – once she was certain Thranduil wasn't going to make her pay for that in some underhanded, devious way – she'd gather all that were closest to her, get them drunk, and make them re-enact it.

* * *

When Legolas went to his father's study later, Thranduil gave him a look that dared him to comment. Legolas, wise child, did not.

"Tell me, Ionneg, did you know what any of that meant, before the…demonstration?" Thranduil asked, pouring them both a glass of wine.

Legolas's mouth twitched into a barely-suppressed almost-smile. "Some. I just did not know there was so much of it. Arandur told me that she says she has not taught him anywhere near the number of insults her languages possess."

The thought of hurling them at whoever next annoyed him was not an unwelcome one. Only rarely did he have to deal with anyone outside his realm, but the next time he had to deal with Elrond or Mithrandir…he would not dare insult Galadriel, even in a tongue she should not be able to understand. She was _Galadriel_, and she would know.

One thing was certain: he was never, _ever_ going to let this Edain near King Dain. They would likely get along far too well.

Meanwhile, the healers had been reading all the library had available about the fëa of Edain. If Lorna's was properly anchored, perhaps he could go near her without risking killing her. Unlike Galadriel and Elrond, he had no great skill at the mental arts, but he was competent enough: if he was to in any way divine how she had come to be here, he needed to try to access her memories. And somehow he had to convince her to let him do it.

* * *

So, the entire 'demonstration', as Thranduil puts it, is based off something that happened to my step-grandmother. Her family emigrated to the U.S. from Ireland when she was a child, and she would often yell Irish insults at the other kids in school, who also picked them up and started using them. This being the 1930's, her teacher thought she would be too ladylike to actually translate any of it, and got a nasty shock when my grandmother just belted out with "You cunt-faced bastard" in front of the whole class. Cursing in Ireland, especially back then, was seen in a very different light than in America; according to my grandmother, everybody swore like sailors, including the priests. She didn't even know that 'shit' was a swear word; that was just what they called poop.

The title means "That was a mistake" in Irish.


	5. Inchinn Léitheoir

In which Lorna finally figures out just where she is (and has a minor existential crisis), we learn more about the curses and the Earth she came from, and Thranduil, really, really, _really_ fucks up.

* * *

Lorna spent the next three weeks twitchy with paranoia, convinced Thranduil would exact some underhanded revenge on her. It was not helped by the fact that on her first day back in the library, a shelf collapsed on her.

It came out of bloody nowhere, too. She'd shut her eyes for a moment, to savor the smell of leather and paper, and a second later there was a groan, a crash, and a lot of pain. Thranduil might have warned her against cussing so much, but she hardly cared. Son of a _bitch._

She shoved a book off her head, and found Arandur staring at her, looking so stricken she couldn't help but laugh. "I am well," she said in Sindarin, in the face of all evidence.

He helped her to her feet, checking her over for injuries with such exaggerated care that she wondered how fragile he thought she was. So far as she could tell, nothing was bruised but her pride.

"I am _well_, Arandur," she stressed, brushing dust off her tunic. "I hope Arsehole doesn't decide I'm bad luck and ban me before I even learn how to read your bloody Tengwar."

"You must see the healers," he said, fluttering like an anxious mother hen – a sight which was far more hilarious than it ought to be. Lorna was a little young to be mother to a teenager, but she felt a sort of maternal affection for the poor kid.

"Fine," she sighed. "But we come back when I are through." Ah, Sindarin. She was sure she still sounded like a three-year-old, but whatever.

Most of the guards gave them a nod as they traipsed through the halls, eyeing her dusty clothes and hair with amusement. Lorna still wasn't at liberty to wander on her own, but she didn't really mind, since she'd only get hopelessly lost by herself. She wasn't used to the sheer beauty of the place yet, though she could do without some of the higher walkways – she and heights had never got along.

"Could I go outside with some person?" she asked, as they descended a flight of steps that really ought to have a railing. No OSHA compliance here. "I miss sky."

"I will see," he promised. "It is not safe to go far."

"I do not need far," she assured him. "Just sky." Christ, she didn't even know what season it was. It had been spring where she'd come from, but it sure as hell hadn't felt like spring in that forest.

Arandur looked at her appraisingly, and she wondered what he was thinking. "You need training."

"In what?" she asked.

"Weapons." He mimed swinging a sword.

Lorna halted. He'd hit upon one of her childhood dreams, and he'd hit hard. She didn't know the Sindarin word for sword, so she said it in English, copying his gesture.

"Sword," he repeated. "Yes. Can you fight?"

"Well, aye, but not with a sword," she said, churning English and Sindarin, as she so often did. Bladed weapons weren't her thing, but she could do a lot of damage with a half-brick and a broken bottle.

"If the healers release you, I will take you to the others," Arandur said, and she barely resisted the urge to do a little dance. Lorna had spent most of her life as a tiny ball of seething rage; these last months were the most peaceful she had ever known, but she couldn't let herself go soft. She wouldn't be here forever.

The promise of violence cheered her immensely, and she followed Arandur in a much better mood. There was nothing for the healers to find wrong with her aside from a few bumps, and then she could go hit something.

The healing rooms were so empty that she wondered if the healers ever got bored. There were only so many times a person could sort and re-sort herbs before they went insane. Lorna was by far their most frequent patient, mostly owing to her companions' almost pathological need to make certain she wasn't broken every time something fell on her. Apparently they had yet to grasp that no, she was not made of glass, no matter how small she was.

By now, she'd privately decided that they _had_ to be some kind of alien. Even the healers seemed unfamiliar with some things about normal human physiology – like the fact that yes, she was going to have a period every month. Evidently their women were lucky enough to only suffer through one every three to six months, or even longer. Potential species difference wasn't something she could really ask about, even if she'd had a good enough grasp of their language, because wow, rude. Under normal circumstances, Lorna didn't care how rude she was, but few of the people here had done anything that would earn her offensiveness. By and large, she liked them, even the ones she still couldn't understand, so she was actually making a concerted effort to be a decent human being. It was not something that came naturally to her, mostly because there had not been many in her life who had treated her with enough respect to earn hers.

And quite honestly, she had some grudging respect even for the people she didn't like. Not Arsehole, but Thranduil, creepy and arrogant though he was, at least seemed to take good care of his people. He wasn't a Henry the VIII, off doing his own thing without a care for his kingdom. Oh, she had no idea just what it was he _did_, but all the guards held him in high esteem – even the ones who would freely admit that he could be a twat.

Galasríniel she was also somewhat fond of, even if she had to see the healer far more often than she liked. Galasríniel was possibly the only damn person in these caves to understand that human beings were a lot tougher than everyone else seemed to assume, and would usually take one look at her and send her on her way again.

Unfortunately, it seemed today was not to be one of those days. Lorna could never help being nervous, whenever the healers decided to prod her. She was pretty sure that usually it was just because they wanted to poke at the human, just like medical students on her Earth. Nothing they did was really invasive, so she didn't really have a problem with letting them, but today she wanted to get out and go follow Arandur to wherever the weapons were kept.

But nope, Galasríniel gestured her to sit on the table, watching her all the while. It was very warm in here, and smelled like some sort of incense Lorna couldn't identify. "Drink this," she said, handing her a metal mug of what smelled remarkably like Irish Breakfast tea.

Lorna eyed it warily. "What is it?" As much as she liked Galasríniel, she hadn't lived this long by trusting blindly.

"Our hope is that it may allow you to safely go near our elders," Galasríniel said.

Lorna didn't properly understand her, so Arandur explained. When he had, she arched an eyebrow. "Elders? There are no old here." Looking at Arandur, she said in English, "To be honest, it's been creeping me out. What happens when one've you lot turns forty? Do they get kicked out?" She could hardly ask if they got eaten.

It took him a bit to work that out, and when he had, he glanced at Galasríniel, translating rapidly. She looked at Lorna, and said cautiously, "Lorna, did you not know you were with the Elves?"

Lorna snorted. "Elves are…story?" She wanted to say 'myth', but didn't know the word. "I know you are not human -" again, she didn't know the word, so she used English – "but where I come from, are no Elves."

Now both were looking at her like she was completely barking. Arandur also looked uneasy. "None?"

"None," she affirmed. Thinking of these people as aliens was one thing, but _Elves_? She supposed something so outlandish shouldn't surprise her, not after all she'd seen and learned in the last three months, but somehow it did.

"Do you know where you are?" Arandur asked.

"I have not want to ask," she admitted. "I was afraid of answer."

Now they _really_ looked worried. It did sound mad, she knew, but she truly hadn't want to ask. Some part of her knew she did not want the answer.

"You are in the halls of the Woodland Realm," Arandur said, and then had to spend five minutes trying to work out how to translate both 'woodland' and 'realm'. "Some call it Mirkwood."

Mirkwood – why was that familiar? She was certain she'd heard or read it somewhere, but for the life of her she couldn't recall.

Seeing her blank expression, Galasríniel prompted, "Near Esgaroth – Lake-Town – and not far from Dale and the Lonely Mountain, Erebor."

Lake-Town…the Lonely Mountain…the names jogged a memory in Lorna's head, some twenty-five years old now. On the nights Da would stay out late at the pub, Mam would sometimes read to she and her brothers and sister, and one of the books she'd read was _The Hobbit_. Lorna had totally forgot it until now, but she knew those names, knew about the Wood-Elves and their caves.

She felt the blood drain from her face, and had to set the cup aside to put her head against her knees, breathing deeply. Had someone told her that when she arrived, she'd have thought them a complete nutter, but after living in these halls all this time, it wasn't so implausible.

Someone – she thought it was Galasríniel – laid a tentative hand on her back. "You're in a book," Lorna said in English. "All these places, the story about how the Dwarves killed the dragon and took back Erebor – it's a story where I'm from, a fantasy." She spoke half in broken Sindarin, a quarter in English, and another quarter in agitated Irish. "None've this is meant to be real."

Arandur made her repeat it all again, more slowly, and in what Sindarin she could muster. She didn't think he understood all of it, but he must have got the gist, for he looked more worried than ever. He translated for Galasríniel, who seemed deeply disturbed.

"Who wrote this tale?" he asked.

"A bloke called Tolkien. It was a story he told his children. He wrote three sequels – more books – but I never read them. I'd always thought he'd made it up, but he can't have – not with you lot here."

Again, more confused translation. Lorna downed the contents of her cup, need to ease her dry throat outweighing her uncertainty of its contents. It burned like fine alcohol, and steadied her nerves somewhat.

"If it was a story, how did you know none of our names?" Galasríniel asked. "The King's, at least."

"None've the Elves were named, as far as I remember," she said, and then tried to switch to Sindarin. "Elves are not in long. Only small part."

The pair shared another glance. "Lorna, if this potion works, you must speak to the King," Galasríniel said urgently.

Lorna was too shell-shocked to protest. Elves, she knew, could live for a very long time, so Galasríniel's explanation of 'Elders' suddenly made sense. It also possibly explained the failure of her curse (which she was still damn grateful for), and maybe even why being around the older Elves fucked her up so badly. The weight of a thousand years of experience would be too much for any human mind to bear, and who knew how old Thranduil and Arsehole were? Not her, though she was probably going to find out.

She rested her forehead on her knees again, still breathing slowly. Whatever had been in that cup hadn't smelled or tasted like alcohol, but it was slowly relaxing her like potent booze.

Either this was insane, or she was. Possibly both. She didn't want to go over all this again with Thranduil, who might well boot her out for being out of her tree, but she knew she hadn't got a choice.

* * *

Thranduil had listened to Galasríniel's tale with increasing disbelief. While there was no reason at all for Lorna to lie about such a thing, he still knew next to nothing about her. She had drunk Galasríniel's cordial; if it worked, he was searching her mind, whether she liked it or not. It was the only way he could be certain of getting the truth from her.

Galasríniel insisted on attempting it in the healing wards, in case something went wrong. She was clearly terrified of him at the moment, but on that she stood firm. Thranduil had no wish to kill Lorna – yet, anyway – so he acquiesced.

When they reached the wards, he found the Edain in question sitting on one of the tables, looking as mazed with shock as a warrior after his first battle. When she looked at him, he saw no lie nor connivance in her eyes; she seemed to genuinely believe her own tale. That did not, however, mean it had not been planted there by another.

Galasríniel explained her errand, with some small aid from Arandur. Thranduil had expected some unease, or even fear, from Lorna.

What he had not expected was rage.

A few seconds of horror entered her expression when comprehension dawned, but it swiftly morphed into wrath the like of which he'd rarely seen in anyone, let alone an Edain. Her face was livid with it, her green eyes like boiling poison, and she scrambled backward across the table, using it as a shield between them.

"Tá tú ag cursed," she snarled, sounding like nothing so much as an enraged animal. The sheer force of her wrath was shocking; it could easily have rivaled his own on a bad day.

She glared at Arandur. "Cén fáth nach raibh tú ag insint dom go raibh sé ar cheann de na cursed?"

"What is she saying?" Thranduil asked, fascinated and repelled in equal measure.

"She – it is in Irish, my lord," Arandur said, pale and horrified. "I – I think she wants to know why I did not tell her you were one of the cursed."

Thranduil knew that asking more questions would waste the entire day. Though she was infuriated, she showed no sign of pain; Galasríniel's cordial must be working.

"I am not going to hurt you, Lorna," he said – then lunged across the table and grabbed her, pulling her across and placing his left hand at the back of her head, and the right at her temple.

_Had he possessed the skill of Galadriel or Elrond, he would have been able to find order in her memories; as it was, he was forced to witness them in whatever order they chose to come._

_Galasríniel was right – Lorna truly was more of a stranger than any of them realized. Her world was in most ways utterly unlike theirs; trees, but no forest he could find, with roads smooth as any Elven road, and hulking metal things with wheels that could travel at great speed._ Cars_, her mind supplied, but even they were less wondrous than what her memory told him were called airplanes – great metal tubes with wings, that could fly through the air and cross oceans in hours._

_There was a blurry memory of her life not long out of childhood, living with a group of other adolescents in a large metal building –_ warehouse_ –doing as they pleased, with no parents anywhere. A man she had loved, dying in the wreck of one of those cars, and the unborn child she had lost with him._

_There was a woman with hair even redder than Tauriel's, to whom Lorna's mind assigned the word 'sister', though they looked nothing at all alike. She had lived with this sister after she had lost her own family, so much younger that she was at first treated little differently than her nieces and nephews. These memories were imbued with a deep, fierce love, and a kind of happiness Thranduil himself had not known in over a thousand years._

_And here –_ this _was what she meant by 'cursed'. There had been no magic in her world, until one day, quite suddenly, there was. There were millions of them, the people she called the cursed, with abilities not unlike those of wizards that most could not control – including Lorna herself. In her own world, her mind was constantly invaded by the thoughts of others, without rhyme nor pattern. When she had arrived here, though an accident that should have killed her, what she saw as the failure of her curse was a relief beyond measure._

_But here – here he had the reason she was so furious of allowing him into her mind._

_Someone had forced it before. And they had not been careful._

Thranduil released her, horrified. What had been done to her mind was sacrilege to the Elves – what sort of nightmare had her world become? He realized, far too late, that what had just done would be unforgivable to her.

Those poisonous green eyes were scant inches from his, and he almost recoiled. There was frigid murder in their depths, and when she hit him, it was entirely without warning.

It was a surprisingly hard blow, too – not just for a woman of her size, but for any Edain. What odd, brutal training she had had was no match for him, but that was not preventing her from trying. He caught her wrist before she could draw back for a second strike, and deflected the one she attempted with her other hand, but he did not anticipate her snapping her head back and slamming her forehead into his nose.

"Leave go've me," she snarled, and though he could not understand her words, the message was clear. He released her wrists, but warily, certain she was going to attack him again as soon as she was free.

She did not. She swung herself off the table and onto the floor, glaring at him all the while. "I'd kill you for that if I could, you bastard," she snapped, and he knew two of those words, at least. She stalked out the door, slamming it behind, leaving only dreadful silence in her wake.

* * *

It was only the sheer force of her rage that kept Lorna going. She stalked her way to her room, and began throwing together the few things she had that would travel well. Long habit had led her to squirrel away quite a bit of food, and she stuffed it into a leather pack she'd been using to haul books, like a child at school. Though she went barefoot more often than not, Tauriel had had boots made for her, as well as a cloak. Now that she knew what else was out there, she'd go to Esgaroth, or Dale – and hope somebody there spoke bloody Sindarin. Otherwise she'd be right back where she started.

Of course she'd have to get past the guards at the gate, but they'd let her out or she'd make them. She put her old coat on under her cloak and found the switchblade and brass knuckles still in the pocket, so at least she wasn't totally without a weapon. Once word of _this_ got around, she doubted they'd stop her anyway.

When she headed back out, she found Arandur waiting for her, also dressed for travel. "Where the fuck d'you think _you're_ going?" she demanded.

"With you. You'll never make it through the forest by yourself." He looked nearly as shaken as she felt – maybe he could handle being around King Douche after that, either.

She tried to give him a smile, but failed. What was it the Americans said? "Let's blow this Popsicle stand."

* * *

About Thranduil: he wasn't trying to be cruel or a dick. He genuinely did not see anything wrong with what he did until after the fact. It's not something he ever would have done to another Elf, but he's still got a superiority complex about other races. He figured that so long as he didn't hurt her, it was fine. Unfortunately for him, someone else already did. He was in no way at all intending to cause her pain or harm – he was just being impatient, and did something stupid because of it.

Fear not – we (and Lorna) have not seen the last of the Woodland Realm. The title means "Mind Reader" in Irish.


	6. Turas

In which Lorna and Arandur skip town (and gain some companions they didn't expect), Thranduil is both guilty and totally fascinated by what he saw of Earth in her mind (and really fucking creepy about it), and Arandur had no idea humans vomit (and is disturbed).

* * *

Arandur spoke to the guards at the gate, and though Lorna didn't know what he said to them, it left them visibly disturbed. They let the pair out into the forest with no protest.

She had wanted to see the sky again, but this sure as hell wasn't the way she'd wanted to go about it. Spring this most definitely was not: at least a foot of snow lay on the ground, frosting the trees into something actually beautiful rather than creepy. The sky itself was a clear, flawless blue, without even a trace of cloud.

It was also, of course, really goddamn cold, but she had enough layers that she thought she'd be all right. Arandur could surely build a fire, even if she couldn't. Much as she'd wanted to run on her own, he was right – she'd never make it alone. Hell, she didn't even know for sure what direction she was meant to go.

She shuddered when she stepped out into the powdery snow, and not from cold. Under other circumstances, what Thranduil did would have pissed her off, but she could have given out at him, hit him a few times, and got over it. These, however, were _not_ other circumstances.

Had he found it, in her head? Had he seen what the _first_ bastard had done? Sure God did she hope not, but she couldn't think of anything else that could horrify him so. The fact that he'd seen it – that anyone could have – made her want to claw her own skin off. That nightmare was for her, and her alone.

Lorna drew a slow, deep breath, forcing some facsimile of calm upon herself. The cold made her chest tingle, tightening the skin of her face, and she took every horrible thought and feeling and locked them into a box at the back of her mind, to be dealt with later. She would not lose her shit, not even in front of Arandur.

He said nothing as he led her across the bridge, and she was damn grateful. Arandur knew her as well as she ever let anyone know her, and he was a bright kid – although she probably couldn't really call him a kid anymore. For all she knew, he could be five hundred years old at least._ That_ thought was going to take some getting used to.

_You're off on an adventure_, she told herself, when the panic threatened to break free from its cage. _Just like Bilbo. And there's snow_. Lorna had only seen snow a few times in her life, and never like this. It squeaked beneath her boots as she followed in Arandur's footsteps, and the slightest puff of wind sent it dusting off the trees in a glittering shower.

They walked that way in silence for several hours if the passage of the sun was any indication, and Lorna grew ever more aware of how out-of-shape she was. Focusing on her burning, aching legs meant she wasn't focused on anything else that had happened today, so in a way it was a mercy. When Arandur finally halted, she almost wished he hadn't.

"Does it hurt?" he asked, looking more solemn than she had ever seen him.

She shook her head. "No. No pain." It was true – nothing Thranduil had done in her mind had hurt, or even cause her any discomfort – but that was not the point. "I am well," she said, trying to force herself to believe it.

"Lorna," he prompted.

"Somebody bloody did that before, all right?!" she cried, Sindarin boiling with English into a stew that was possibly incomprehensible. "Somebody did, and _that_ hurt, and now that son've a bitch decides to just hop in my head without a by-your-leave, and I hope he drops dead, d'you hear me? I hope somebody puts out his other eye!"

The ball of anxiety in her chest seemed to crack open, and suddenly she couldn't breathe. Brutally suppressed memory of the telepath who had almost torn her mind apart gripped her like a vise, and she sicked up her breakfast into the snow.

Lorna's life would probably be much easier if she could cry, but she seemed to be physically incapable of it. She had no outlet for the poison in her – all she could do, all she had ever been _able_ to do, was deal with it. That would be hard as hell now, but she'd endured worse, and she had no choice.

"Lorna," he said again, and she held up a hand, cutting him off. After spitting bile, she took a sip from her water-skin, spat again, and faced him.

"I'll not say any more about it. Let's just go."

* * *

It was not often that Thranduil was willing to admit he had made a mistake, but just now he had no choice. He should not have done that, and he knew it.

What a strange, wonderful, horrifying world Lorna had come from. The thought of being able to cross thousands of miles in mere hours was an amazing one even for him. Cars, the small squares that her mind defined as cell phones, that allowed people to talk to one another on opposite sides of the world. In that they were like the Palantíri, and yet they were ubiquitous among her people. And all the wonders of her world had been crafted by mortal Men, with no aid from Elves or Dwarves.

He would have thought that a world without orcs would be peaceful, but what those Edain did to one another – that one in particular had done to her. What made it worse was that she knew she had not been the first, and she would not be the last. One of her own kind was torturing them, ripping through their minds without thought or care…

He had been careful, but he had not known how much damage had already been done. Galasríniel needed to look at her, if Lorna would allow anyone near her yet.

When he summoned Galion to tell the healer, however, his butler's initial confusion turned to unease.

"My lord, I thought you knew," he said. "She left."

"She _what_?" Thranduil demanded.

"She left, and Arandur with her. No one would say why."

Thranduil knew why – to get away from him, but they were both mad to do it. Arandur was no warrior, and whatever experience with violence Lorna had would be of no use against a giant spider. He doubted they would last a day on their own, and that was assuming they were not already dead. "Which way did they go?" He would hope Arandur would know better than to lead her south, through the worst of the forest and its resident spiders.

"Toward the Long Lake, my lord. I really thought you knew."

"And _why_, if I knew, would I allow them both to wander out into the wilderness alone?" he asked. "Arandur is little more than a child, and Lorna is a stranger to these lands. Had I wanted them both dead, I would not have gone about it in such an indirect fashion."

Galion had no answer, and fortunately did not attempt to give one.

"Send Faelon and Menelwen to find them." Lorna would be infuriated with him, and he could in no way blame her, but she had friends, and they had an access to barrels of Dorwinion that he pretended he did not know about. Aside from Arandur, Faelon and Menelwen seemed to be the Elves she had grown closest to; they had a better chance of persuading her than any others.

As for Arandur, Thranduil could not imagine how he could have even considered doing something so stupid. Lorna had little idea just what lurked outside his halls, but Arandur did, and had he even half the intelligence Thranduil had thought, he would have made Lorna change her mind, not gone haring off into the wilderness with her. Especially since he had been present when Thranduil did…what he had done…to Lorna's mind. The last thing in the world that woman ought to be doing was trying to survive a Mirkwood winter, and Arandur should have known it.

He wished he could wonder why the gate-guards had released them in the first place, but he did not have to.

All Arandur would have had to do was tell them what_ he_ had done.

* * *

Arandur really had not thought this through.

He had no idea just what extremes of temperature Edain could handle, nor how far Lorna would be able to travel before she'd have no choice but to rest. She certainly seemed determined to keep going until she dropped, but he probably shouldn't let her – he just had to work it out before she actually fell over from exhaustion.

Nor did he know how to handle her odd emotional reactions. Again, he knew little of Edain outside of her, but surely someone who had been so traumatized was meant to weep, were they not? Lorna raged, and…and…vomited (which was not something he had ever seen, and which had secretly terrified him) and then marched onward, as quietly as an Edain who was not a Ranger could manage. At times he would glance behind him, and find her looking about with something like wonder, muted though it was. It was as though she had taken her grief and her pain (however metaphorical) and locked them away somewhere. It was not at all how the Eldar dealt with these things, but perhaps her reaction was normal for her people.

He called a halt at nightfall, rather than risk letting her fall over the riverbank in the dark. Between them they managed to find enough dry wood to build a fire, both seated on a fallen log with a large oak at their backs.

Lorna was still mostly silent as they cooked sausages over the coals, watching the small flames dance. "I cook like this sometimes, when I younger," she said, stumbling a little over the Sindarin. "My husband and I, we roam, but there was not like this -" she gestured at the forest, and he took it to mean that while she had traveled, it had not been in the true wilds.

"You are married?" he asked, surprised she had never mentioned it.

"Was, years ago," she said, and paused a moment. "I am lucky coming here – now I have not things left behind me. Only things here." Her meaning was somewhat difficult to work out, but she seemed more pleased by it than not. She must be widowed, then, but it could not have been recently.

Some of the fat boiled out of her meat, hissing and flaring when it met the coals. She smiled, turning the stick. She was, as Arandur had so often thought, such an _odd_ creature.

The hair on the back of his neck prickled, and he went still. Something was watching them, and he wished that he'd had a warrior's training, that he could know it by sense alone – but he was a librarian, a scholar. His woodland training had ended two hundred years ago.

Menelwen leapt down from the crown of the tree behind them, all but scaring the life out of him. She looked both exasperated and anxious. "Did you two _really_ think you would make it to Dale alive?" she asked, shaking her head. "Arandur, you cannot keep a plant alive – what made you think you could guide our Edain safely through such wilderness?"

"Well, we could try," Lorna said, wheezing – she must have choked on her own spit. "You know why we leave?"

"Yes," Menelwen said, her expression going grave. "We were sent to bring you back."

"Yeah, that's not gonna happen," Lorna snorted in English. "You can go back to your King and tell him I said to go fuck himself."

Menelwen winced even before Arandur finished translating. "We cannot return without you."

"We?" Arandur asked, just in time for Faelon to land beside Menelwen.

Lorna's face was tense, her eyes murderous with rage, but when she spoke, her tone was thoughtful. "So don't go back," she said. "Come with us."

They both gaped at her – as did Arandur. It was one thing for a scholar to leave, but for two of the Forest Guard to desert while on a mission? Well, all right, Tauriel had done it, but under far more extreme circumstances. Clearly Lorna did not understand the enormity of what she asked.

"How about I make this easy for you," she said, in a mix of English and Sindarin. "You could _try_ to drag me all the way back to your halls, but you'd fail, unless you stuffed me in a sack like a cat – and you haven't got a sack. I can't fucking believe you got sent after us to begin with."

Privately, Arandur couldn't, either. He was not a high-level scholar, not one of the great sages who would be missed, and Lorna, at the end of the day, was just an Edain so far as most of the Wood-Elves were concerned. The guards would have wanted to bring her home, but they had little say in what orders they were – or were not – issued.

"The King is…sorry," Faelon said, his discomfort plain.

"Good for him," Lorna snapped. "That's his problem, not mine. Look, you two are my friends – I don't want you to get into trouble with that fucker for going back without me, and since it sounds like you would, you might as well just come with."

Faelon and Menelwen were not quite so adept at understanding her pidgin of English and Sindarin as Arandur, but they got there eventually. Their decisions, he knew, would not be complicated by any family that could or could not be left behind; both had been on their own for centuries. He doubted either wanted to contemplate what Thranduil would do if they returned to the halls without their quarry, either.

"Come on," she said, her tone wheedling. "You know you want to. If you really can't, at least eat dinner with us, and then go back and say we've died."

"The King would know if we lied," Faelon said morosely.

"If you return empty-handed, you might well be banished anyway," Arandur pointed out. "Or imprisoned, which would be worse. You may as well come with us now, and save everyone the trouble."

Faelon and Menelwen shared another glance.

* * *

_And two become four_, Lorna thought, more pleased than she would have thought herself capable of at the moment. Maybe she could start collecting Elves, like salt shakers. Thranduil would probably blow a gasket whenever he figured out his two scouts weren't coming home, and she wished she could be a fly on _that_ wall.

Though of him still made her twitch a little. She supposed she shouldn't be _surprised_ he'd so casually violate her mind like that – she'd already been well aware of his arrogance, and it had been implied pretty strongly that he didn't have much use for anyone who wasn't an Elf. But shock her it had, and badly – what she really wanted right now was a drink. A whole row of drinks. Esgaroth had humans, and where there were humans, there was usually booze. It had been so long since she'd read the book that she had no idea how much time it took to get from Mirkwood to Esgaroth, but she was pretty sure it was a few days.

And shit, maybe she'd be able to find a cigarette.

* * *

By four the next morning, Thranduil had to concede it: he was distracted.

He did not expect Faelon and Menelwen to return with their charges until much later in the day at the very earliest, and Eru knew he had enough business to be getting on with, but his thoughts kept drifting to the world he had seen within Lorna's mind. There had been much that he touched and put away, to be taken out and inspected later, and he seemed completely incapable of leaving it alone.

_One memory in particular called to him. He did not know how old Lorna was when she formed it, but he did not think it had been so very long ago, by Edain standards. She had ridden a contraption called a motorcycle, a thing that had only two wheels yet somehow remained upright, down one of her world's Elven-smooth roads at a speed far greater than anything Thranduil had ever experienced. Frigid wind blasted through her hair, numbing her face, but she was near bursting with joy, young and alive and in love –_

This was wrong. He felt disgustingly like a voyeur, sifting through the thoughts and memories of a living being who had not given him consent to take them. What he had done was bad enough; he need not make it worse by sorting through her mind like a Dwarf with a box of jewels.

The problem was that it was so very _fascinating_. Perhaps, if he left her more personal memories alone, it would not be so bad. There was much he could learn, without invading her privacy.

If he told himself that often enough, he might actually believe it.

* * *

Snow, Lorna decided, might be beautiful, but it was rubbish to sleep on.

She had discovered ages ago that Elves didn't sleep like normal people, so they had kept the fire going and made sure she didn't freeze to death. Once she'd stretched out the kinks, she had to go find a bush to pee behind, and that was even _less_ fun.

At least she'd brought her Elven equivalent of a toothbrush: the twig of some tree she couldn't recognize, with bristles at one end. It let her clean the fuzz off her teeth before she ate some bread and cheese for breakfast.

If she had dreamed, she didn't remember it, but all three of her friends were giving her worried looks. "A thing on my face?" she asked in Sindarin.

"You had nightmares," Arandur said. "Terrible ones, by the sound of it."

"Well, I don't remember them. Everyone ready?"

He looked like he wanted to say more, but her almost-glare silenced him. In truth, Lorna wouldn't feel properly safe until they had more than one day of distance between them and Thranduil. They were probably all _personae non grata_ now, and she'd rather not find out what he'd do if he caught them. She doubted the others did, either.

The sunrise was more than enough to banish her worries for a while. Pale dawn gave way to rose and gold, and it painted the glittering snow. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze, and the heavy snow muffled whatever sound there might have been beyond the babble of the river, funneled in a narrow channel through wide patches of ice.

True quiet was not something she had much experience with. Dublin was always noisy, and when she and Liam had traveled, it had been with a large group. Her sister Mairead had four kids, and once Lorna had run to the States, it was even worse. Now she thought she understood what people meant when they said silence was golden.

Fortunately, her friends humored her, and didn't try to push her past the slow gait that the snow forced on her short legs. Just now she was glad she'd had to quit smoking, or she would already have run out of breath. Her thigh muscles hated her for all the walking she'd done yesterday, but they could deal with it. She'd hate them right back.

With every step, a little of her anxiety began to unravel. It would probably be at least a day before Thranduil figured out Faelon and Menelwen weren't coming back, and by then they'd be well out of reach. Part of her was annoyed with herself for feeling so afraid of him, but dammit, she had a right to be. She needed to find someone who could help her actually use her curse, so that no one might ever be able to do that to her again.

_Gandalf_. He ought to still be wandering around somewhere, and she was enough of a novelty in this world that he might be willing to come see her, if he hadn't got anything better to do. Christ, she wished she'd read _Lord of the Rings_, so she'd have some idea of what he might be up to now. She'd ask someone, once they reached Lake-Town.

The thought of being around other humans again was not altogether a pleasant one. She knew now that her curse wasn't broken – it just didn't work around Elves, because they were, well, Elves. And who fucking knew how much damage Thranduil might have done to it, without knowing or meaning to.

Arandur must have seen the tension in her shoulders, for he requested a drinking song. What she gave him was one of her favorite childhood limericks:

_Two Irishmen, two Irishmen, diggin' in a ditch  
One call the other one a dirty son of a _

_Peter Murphy had a dog, a very good dog was he_  
_He gave him to his lady friend to keep her company_  
_She taught him, she taught him, she taught him how to jump_  
_He jumped right up her petticoat and bit her on the_

_Country boy, country boy, sittin' on a rock  
Along came a spider and bit him on the_

_Cocktail, ginger ale, five cents a glass  
If you don't believe my story, then shove it up your_

_Ask me no questions, I cannot tell a lie  
If you ever get hit with a bag of shit, be sure to close your eyes_

They might not have known all the words (or even most of them), but the ending made them all laugh.

"Your world is very profane," Menelwen observed.

"Not _all_ of it," Lorna said. "But some. Each language has own."

"How many languages are there in your world?" Faelon asked.

"Christ, I not know. Hundreds?"

"And you speak four?"

Lorna snorted. "No. Two I speak like you speak Sindarin, and two I speak like _I_ speak Sindarin."

Arandur laughed. "You will have to learn Westron, where we are going," he said. "Not many Edain speak Sindarin."

Lorna groaned.

* * *

Faelon wondered if he was doing the right thing. He had grown up in Thranduil's halls, and had served in the Guard for two hundred years. By all logic, he needed to go report to his King that his quarry refused to return. He certainly should not be abandoning his entire life on a whim, and yet...he was. _Why?_ Certainly the King would be angry, but he would likely not go so far as banishing or imprisoning him and Menelwen, as Arandur so melodramatically claimed. There was no reason to truly fear his reaction.

What King Thranduil had done was undeniably horrible, but it should not have been enough to drive Faelon so irrevocably from the only home he had ever known. However uneasy he was, however utterly mad he knew this to be, he could not turn around. Doubtless Menelwen felt the same, or she would have gone back.

What they were to do when they reached Esgaroth, he didn't know. If Lorna wished to go on to Dale, he wouldn't be able to fault her for it; he did not understand how anyone could want to live atop a lake, and in any event even the rebuilt city was too close to the dragon's carcass for his taste. But what would two Elven guards, an Elven scholar, and an alien Edain who spoke no Westron do in Dale? It sounded like the beginning of one of Lorna's untranslatable jokes.

_I suppose we'll find out_, he thought, and wondered that he was not more concerned.

* * *

So, that limerick is one my friend's grandmother taught my friend and I when we were kids. Needless to say, she was an awesome grandmother.

The title means 'journey' in Irish.


	7. Athruithe

In which our quartet of travelers decide Esgaroth is a big no-go, Thranduil continues to be creepy (and Legolas is very worried), and Bard finds himself saddled with four houseguests and potentially a major problem.

* * *

It took less than a day for Lorna to decide that Esgaroth was not a place she wanted to live, for a number of reasons.

Oh, it looked good enough – hell, it was downright picturesque. Esgaroth 2.0 was less than five years old, and in places still smelled like new lumber. There was also a hefty amount of mildew, but having lived half her life in a city quite near the Atlantic, she was well used to that. No, the biggest problem – the one not related to her curse, anyway – was the fact that the town's water supply and sewage system was the same thing.

The realization horrified her. How in hell had the old town not all died of dysentery ages ago? Oh, the lake was more than big enough to dilute it, but still. Sewage had a tendency to…linger. It meant that, as much as she'd like to try some home-brewed beer, she didn't dare.

Her three friends seemed just as uncomfortable as she was, so they didn't linger long. The prospect of a warm bed wasn't enough to tempt any of the, and Lorna had to get away from that packed crowd before her head split.

And yet, weirdly, the impact of so many people and their unguarded thoughts wasn't nearly as severe as it ought to be. Was her curse still malfunctioning? Christ, wouldn't that be a blessing. Maybe the humans here were different enough from those on Earth to water it down somewhat.

_Or maybe it was Thranduil_, she thought, as they trudged through the snow. She shuddered, and not from the chill of the icy wind that blasted off the lake. To her own annoyance, each passing day made her irrationally more afraid of him.

Thranduil was not that nameless doctor. He had not caused her pain, or damage in any way she could detect. He had not been cruel or brutal about it at all – but the fact remained that he _could_ have been. He could have torn her mind apart, and there would have been nothing she could have done about it. _That_ scared her, and she didn't think it an irrational fear at all.

She couldn't voice that fear to the Elves, all of whom looked troubled enough already. Lorna felt like absolute shit or dragging them on her so-called adventure. Oh, she hadn't _dragged_ them anywhere, but she was pretty sure Faelon and Menelwen were only here because they were afraid to go home. Arandur had left with her of his own will, but she doubted he'd realized just what he was getting himself into. If she'd had any consideration at all for them, she would have done back when Faelon and Menelwen found her, but she just…couldn't. However much it infuriated her to admit, even to herself, she was too afraid.

Had the lot of them been human, she wouldn't have been scared. If Thranduil had been a normal man, she would have kicked the shit out of him, and put up with the fact that he'd kick back harder. The problem was that they _weren't_ human – he probably could have broken her neck if he felt like it. When it came to fighting, she doubted she'd stand a chance against any of them, and that pissed her off, too. She wouldn't live long enough to even begin to learn enough of what it would take to bring down an Elf, let alone their goddamn king.

She shivered again, and this time it was from cold. Her Elven cloak was warmer than it looked, but she was a tiny human with a lot of muscle and little in the way of body fat for insulation. At least if she was moving, she wouldn't freeze to death, although stopping to pee was even less fun than the first day. She just prayed her period would hold off until they reached Dale.

Darkness was descending fast, so they took what shelter they could find in a copse of half-burned fir trees. The damage the dragon had done was still evident in many places, even under all the snow, and the sight of it floored her, because, well, _dragon_. She'd got used to the idea of Elves after living with them for so long, but seeing with her own eyes the aftermath of the actual attack of an actual dragon was still difficult to believe.

Menelwen was the only one who managed to coax any fire from the damp wood – thank God for Elves and their voodoo – and then Lorna wound up practically sitting in it to try to stay warm. She was so damn cold she could barely eat some break, though the hot, tea-like liquid Faelon brewed went over much better.

"How far are we from Dale?" she asked, once her teeth had stopped chattering.

Faelon looked at Menelwen. They seemed to have their own private language, comprised entirely of glances. "Three days, at the rate we are going," she said. "Less, if you would swallow your pride and let one of us carry you."

The thought was appalling. Lorna was not a child, for all she wasn't much bigger than one, and she was also not a bloody invalid. She could handle another three days of this if she had to, dammit.

On the other hand, her friends would also be stuck in this misery with her, and while cold clearly didn't affect Elves like it did humans, they were just as clearly not having any fun. Plus, she didn't relish the idea of taking a crap in the snow.

"I'm heavier than I look," she warned.

"And we are stronger than we look," Faelon said, his relief obvious.

"Don't I know it," Lorna muttered. Thranduil had hauled her over the table as though she weighed no more than a cat.

Faelon and Menelwen looked puzzled, but Arandur was suddenly visibly uncomfortable.

"Tá sé fíneáil, Arandur," she said. _I am fine_. She hoped the others hadn't picked up enough Irish to understand her. Honestly, that poor kid had looked even more freaked out than she'd felt, and that was really saying something. She supposed he didn't have anything like her well of rage to sustain him.

It was still there, simmering at the back of her mind, but she kept a lid on it for the sake of her companions, distracting herself was much as she could with their surroundings – the good and the bad. It would blow sooner or later – it always did – but hopefully it could wait until they weren't out in the middle of bloody nowhere.

"Get some sleep," he said. "You are safe here."

* * *

By now, Tauriel had to face the fact that something was wrong.

Faelon and Menelwen should have been back days ago, either with their charges or – Eru forbid – word of their deaths. She found it hard to believe that some ill had befallen all four of them, but she didn't know what else to think.

On top of that, the King was acting…odd, even for him. He had spent much time sequestered in his rooms, rarely allowing even Galion to see him. The butler refused to speak of what he witnessed, but he was obviously troubled.

"You need to speak with your father, Legolas," she said, when he had returned from patrol. "I do not know what is wrong with him, but I fear it. Something happened three days ago, something that drove Lorna and Arandur out into the forest, and I believe he was involved. Now he will see none but Galion, who looks each day as though he has peered into the Void."

"_What?_" Legolas asked.

"Galasríniel knows, I think," Tauriel said, "but she will say nothing. You at least have the authority to order her to."

"Where is my father?" he asked grimly.

"In his rooms. I believe he did something before Lorna and Arandur left, something terrible, but now I wonder if something was done to him as well. I can explain it no more clearly than that. I sent Faelon and Menelwen to find them, but none of them have returned."

"Elladan and Elrohir have come with me," he said. "Tomorrow, I will send them out looking. If anyone can find out what happened to those four, it is them."

Tauriel could only pray he was right. She could not imagine what might have driven Lorna and Arandur out into a Mirkwood winter by themselves, but it must have been drastic. Lorna could not have known just what she would face out there, but Arandur would, and yet he had gone anyway.

"I will speak to my father," Legolas said. "Go tell Galasríniel that I require her presence in the lesser guard room, and clear everyone else away."

Tauriel went, and hoped her King was not losing his mind.

* * *

Such a mysterious mess was the last thing Legolas wanted to deal with on his first evening home.

His initial suspicion was that Lorna and Arandur had been banished, but if that was the case, Faelon and Menelwen would not have been sent to retrieve them. _That_ made it sound worryingly like escape.

Galion, who did indeed appear as though he had peered into the Void, hesitated before allowing him in. "Your father is…troubled. He may not look it at first glance, but something is gravely amiss with him."

"So I have been warned. I will find out why, one way or another." He entered the chambers with no small amount of trepidation, though he hid it well.

The first thing he noticed was that it was warm – very warm. The fire had been built up until it was roaring on the grate, yet his father still wore his full regalia, lacking only the crown. He stood at the vast table near the left wall, which was spread with maps and parchment, and littered with empty ink-pots and used quills. From the look of it, he had been doing a great deal of drawing – most of the pages were covered with strange images the like of which Legolas had never seen.

"You have been busy, Adar," Legolas said, trying to keep his tone light.

"I have learned much," his father said, touching one of the drawings. "Lorna's world is fascinating."

Since when had he spoken to Lorna? Their two brief meetings – that Legolas knew of, anyway – had both ended in disaster. "Oh?" he prompted, uncertain of what else he might say.

His father looked up, and Legolas froze, suddenly understanding what Galion had meant. There was a strange, almost fey light in the King's eyes, such as Legolas had never seen – not just in his father, but in _anyone_. "Adar, what have you done?"

"Something I should not have," he admitted, "but what I – what _we_ – have gained from it cannot be measured. If only she knew more about how these things functioned."

A formless dread gripped Legolas's heart. "Adar," he said again, more forcefully, "what have you _done_?"

"I looked into Lorna's mind," his father said serenely. "Her world is so very unlike ours. Far worse in some ways, but far better in others."

"She allowed you to do that?" Legolas asked, surprised. According to the guards, she considered their King 'a right creepy bastard'. Much must have changed, while he was away.

"No," his father admitted, sounding rather less serene, "she did not."

Legolas stared at him, horrified. To violate the sanctity of another's mind…his father must have considered her a very great threat, but what sort danger could one small Edain pose to the Woodland Realm? "_Why?_"

"I needed answers, and it was the only way I could be certain she would tell me the truth."

Well, that made sense, but it made the act itself no less horrible. "Is that why she left?"

"Yes," his father snapped, suddenly irritated. "I need her back, ionneg. I need to know what else lies in her mind."

"She would never allow that, Adar," Legolas said, his unease growing.

The look his father gave him chilled him to the core. "I do not care what she would _allow_," he said. "She could not stop me. _Find her_."

"Yes, Adar." It was only years of training that kept him from fleeing. When he reached the antechamber, Galion gave him a look of sympathy.

"Now do you see?" he asked.

"I do," Legolas said grimly. He knew what he had to do as well: there were only two Elves still in Middle-Earth who could heal whatever sickness of the mind had befallen his father, and he had to see if one of them would come to his aid.

Elladan and Elrohir were, unsurprisingly, drinking with the other guards. They looked so very alike that even yet he sometimes had difficultly telling them apart, but their jovial expressions faded into identical masks of worry when they saw his face.

He beckoned them out into the corridor, and when he spoke, his voice was low and urgent. "There was an Edain woman living here for several months. She left with one of our scholars three days past, and now possibly has two of our guards with her. You must find her, and on no account bring her anywhere near these halls. I know you cannot reach your father's home until the passes have opened come spring, but once they do, you must take her there."

"Where are you going?" Elladan asked.

"To see your grandmother, if I can make it through the snow. I badly need her aid."

* * *

Riding piggyback like a child was so undignified that Lorna was glad nobody outside their group could see her. Not that she had a great deal of dignity to begin with, but she had _some_, dammit.

She couldn't deny that they made far better time this way, though. How the three of them could still walk on top of the snow while taking turns carrying her, she had no idea, but they did, and as a result they reached Dale in little over a day.

It was, she had to admit, pretty damn impressive, with its high stone walls and domed roofs. She just hoped it stayed that way once they were inside, and didn't turn out to be some kind of cesspit of rotten food and shit, like something out of _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._

The gate-guard openly boggled at them, but she really couldn't blame him: you had three Elves, who, like cats, somehow always managed to look clean, and one human, who…didn't. She didn't want to imagine what she must smell like to people who hadn't been around her for the last four days; if it was at all possible, she wanted a bath. Her friends would probably thank her for it, too.

Only now, however, did she realize something – something that ought to have occurred to her days ago. She had no money whatsoever; hell, she didn't even know what Dale _used_ for money. If they were like a real medieval society, maybe she could barter, but she had few skills that would be of any use here. At least she could shovel snow (or shit).

Mercifully, Arandur seemed to have more common sense than she did. He'd brought what looked like actual pieces of gold with him, passing some to the guard and speaking rapidly in what she assumed was Westron. Thought of having to learn another language when she was already still learning one made her head spin.

That wasn't the only reason it spun, either. She could feel the press of what had to be hundreds of minds, but at least at a distance, it wasn't like a solid invading force. If she found a way to settle near the outer wall, she might not go mad from the onslaught of alien thoughts within a week.

She drew a deep breath, peering around Arandur's elbow. While the streets had their share of horse shit, they were well cleared of snow, and there was no visible garbage anywhere. A sniff of the frigid air brought wood smoke, far too many cooking smells, the aroma of what was probably horses (and their by-products), and, oh wonder of wonders, tobacco. While Lorna doubted cigarettes existed here, if she could find a pipe and something to smoke in it, it might just make this entire damn trek worth it.

Arandur finished speaking with the guard, and led them all inside. She noted that while most of the windows had glass, a few had shutters that were securely barred against the cold. Nothing like streetlights, of course, but she doubted gas was a thing here, and most sensible people were probably home by dark on a night like this.

It was a relief to be able to walk without struggling, though the streets were still treacherous with ice, and dodging the road-apples was a bit of work. She didn't want to have to scrape horse crap off her shoes before she could go inside anywhere.

"Where we going?" she asked, struggling to keep up with Arandur's long strides and not fall on her arse at the same time.

"Bard," he said. "Lord of Dale."

Lorna stumbled. Bard? _The_ Bard? Bard the Dragonslayer? She remembered him, all right; she'd spent most of her ninth year wishing she could _be_ him. She'd love to kill a dragon (after, of course, it ate her da). "Why?" she asked. They were three Elves and a human – which sounded like either a great band name, or a really cheesy movie. Why would the Lord of bloody Dale need to see them?

"Because we may need his help," Arandur said, unusually grim. "Technically, we are all fugitives from King Thranduil, and he needs to know that."

Well, fuck. "What we do if we are turn away?"

He paused long enough to look at her, and give her an extremely crooked smile. "We go to King Dain. Bard might fear King Thranduil's wrath, but Dain would welcome it. He has little enough love for Elves in general, but he has far less for King Thranduil – Dain would shelter us, if only to spite him."

That was a relief. Not that she could see Thranduil giving much of a shit about them now, since they were well away. He wasn't likely to want to expend a lot of manpower – Elf-power – to bring four strays back through three feet of snow just so he could either imprison them, or kick them out all over again.

Bard's house, they found, was quite grand – and was also well up a steep hill. The sandstone-colored bricks it was built of were so smooth that they could have been made by a modern factory on Earth, and were shiny with ice. The shutters on most of the windows were closed, but the two that flanked the door were open, and warm firelight shone through them to cast bright squares on the snow. She couldn't remember if Bard was married in the book, but it sounded like he had a family – the laughter of multiple people could be heard even outside.

Arandur knocked, and when the door opened, Lorna froze.

This man, whether he was Bard or some other family member, looked so goddamn much like Liam that it was actually painful. It wasn't the dark hair and brown eyes – loads of people had that combo – but the very structure of his face. He was somewhat paler than Liam, and taller, but oh Christ, she did not need _that_ reminder right now.

She shoved it ruthlessly away, trying to figure out what Arandur was saying to him. He looked at her, then at Faelon and Menelwen, his expression tightening – clearly, he did not like what he was hearing. Dammit.

In the end, though, he waved them all inside, and Lorna didn't bother concealing her sigh of relief. It was toasty warm, still smelling of what had probably been stew for dinner.

The room was large, and the plain furniture – a dinner-table, kitchen chairs, and several armchairs – were at odds with the obviously expensive architecture. Bard must not be comfortable living in such a fancy house, even after five years.

Two young women – one couldn't be any more than fifteen, if that – sat on a rug in front of the fireplace, playing what looked for all the world like tiddlywinks. They looked up when the group entered, eyes widening. Lorna was acutely conscious of the fact that her companions all looked like they'd stepped out of a magazine, making her the odd, normal one out.

The man – who had to be Bard – said something, and the eldest left the room. The younger started clearing away the game, and now Lorna felt bad for interrupting their evening. Though she supposed having Elves for guests was more interesting than any game.

Bard spoke to Arandur, who spoke to Menelwen, who said to Lorna, "Come. Bard's daughter is drawing baths."

If Mirkwood was hell, this had to be heaven.

* * *

Bard was immensely troubled.

He had not looked to see any Elves before spring, as they rarely left the forest in winter. He _certainly_ hadn't expected to hear such a tale as this Arandur told him. Never had he heard of an Elf lying, but if this story was true, it was deeply worrying.

King Thranduil was a powerful ally, but if he should choose to pursue his wayward subjects and the woman, he could be an equally powerful enemy. Nobody would be doing anything until spring, however, and by then this whole business could be cleared up.

"You may stay," he said. "But if you are discovered and if you are requested to return, I cannot shelter you. I will help you escape south, but I will not risk the full might of your king's wrath."

"Nor would we ask you to," Arandur said. "In all likelihood he has, as Lorna would say, written us off, but after witnessing what he did, I find I can no longer be sure of anything. I wish we had a way to get word to Mithrandir."

"From what I have seen of Mithrandir, he tends to turn up where he is needed," Bard said, a little dryly. The wizard seemed to have no qualms about interfering – whether his interference was wanted or not.

"I hope you are right," Arandur sighed. "This mess is beyond any of us."

"Where will you go, if King Thranduil seeks you?"

"Imladris, and the house of Lord Elrond. There are often other Edain – Men – there, so the three of us would not be the only ones with kindred."

"Well, I do not know how often Elves need rest, but there are more rooms here than my family needs, especially now that Bain has gone to train in Erebor. I can offer you hot baths as well as food."

"We will find some way to repay you," Arandur promised. "There is much we can do for you, throughout the winter."

"I am sure of it," Bard said, "but for now you are my guests. Let me heat you some stew."

* * *

The tub wasn't very big, but neither was Lorna, so it worked out just find. The hot water was a blessing, especially beside the fire, and she lingered.

Washing her hair in a bucket was another story. It was so long that by the time she was through rinsing it, the water had gone cold, and without the Elven conditioner, combing was going to take ages. Her clothes weren't exactly dirty after only four days' worth of travel – especially since it had been far too cold for her to sweat – so she didn't feel gross putting them back on.

So this was Bard's house. Christ, but she'd had a turn when she saw him. She'd had enough time now to get over Liam's death, or seeing him might have crippled her.

She hadn't known he had daughters. The girls looked so very alike, but they must take after their mother. Both had fallen over themselves to be helpful – especially the younger, who had almost seemed entranced by Menelwen. Lorna had been around Elves so long that she supposed she'd just got used to the fact that they all put supermodels to shame.

She was still wrestling with her hair when the younger girl knocked, and entered with Menelwen in tow. She asked a question, very shyly, and Menelwen translated it with a smile.

"She wants to know if she can comb your hair," she said.

Lorna's eyebrows climbed up to her hairline. The kid looked so earnest, and hell, she was sick of dealing with it. "Of course," she said, holding out the comb.

The girl took it, and came to sit behind her. She teased at the snarls with practiced ease, humming to herself.

Memory slammed into Lorna like a freight train. When she was a little girl, her mother had always combed her hair after a bath, singing all the while. Mam had had a voice like an angel – her own couldn't compare – and they were some of the few positive memories she had of her childhood. She shut her eyes, savoring the reminder, listening to the unfamiliar tune. The soft brush of the kid's thoughts was soothing, too – just a touch, not a punch to the brain.

The girl said something, and Menelwen said, "She says you have beautiful hair. Black and silver, like the city guards."

Lorna barely suppressed a snort, not wanting to hurt the kid's feelings. She didn't think anyone had ever called the grey 'silver' before. It had started coming in when she was fifteen, and she had no idea why; so far as she knew, no one else in her family had gone grey so young.

Silver. Huh. She'd have to remember that.

* * *

Arandur was extremely grateful to be inside, even if the home was strange to him. He had not slept in days, which was not unusual for the Eldar, but he would be glad of a soft bed tonight.

Faelon and Menelwen had seen many Edain, but he had rarely been away from the halls. Dale was already fascinating to him, and he had seen very little of it. Come morning, he would explore.

The others had already long gone to bed, even Bard, but tired though he was, Arandur was too excited to sleep yet. Fresh snow was falling outside the window, and he was pleased to watch it – there were, after all, no windows in the caves. He did not know what Faelon and Menelwen thought of it all, but he was glad to have ventured out into the wide world. He would not even mind being forced to move to Imladris.

But for now he really needed to go to sleep. He would need all the energy he could muster tomorrow, to see the city.

* * *

So, a running theme in Lorna's canon is that telepathy can be dangerously addictive, especially if misused. Obviously this is not the case with Elves, but Thranduil, in touching Lorna's mind the way he did, touched her curse. He doesn't realize it yet, but he's infected. And he's only going to get worse before he gets better.

Also, I just realized that Thranduil is a little bit like Ariel: fascinated by the human world, and wanting more. Unlike Ariel, however, he's willing to mind-rape someone to get it.

Title means "Changes" in Irish.


	8. Shaothrú

In which Thranduil is like a junkie jonesing for a hit (of Lorna's brain), Bard wonders if his house is going to be overrun with Elves (and turns out to be right), Lorna discovers that life in Dale is a lot more work than life in Thranduil's halls, and Elladan tries to give her fighting lessons (and begins to suspect Thranduil caught his crazy from her).

* * *

Thranduil had sketched and paced and pondered himself into utter exhaustion.

His resolution to leave Lorna's personal memories alone had lasted less than a day. He picked apart everything he had taken from her, greedy for experience in her world. She had traveled quite a bit when she was younger, and the cities she saw, the people she met – it was addictive.

The only time he felt the slightest guilt was when he looked over what had been done to her mind the first time. He would heal that damage, when he found her – he would not be that nameless monster that had torn into her thoughts like the thing she called a chainsaw. She would be grateful to him when it was over, and he would have everything her mind had to offer.

He lay now on his bed, staring at the ceiling without really seeing it. His mind's eye was focused on the ocean near the city of her childhood, on the great metal ships, so much larger than anything the Eldar had built in millennia, sitting at anchor in the grey-blue sea. There was a scent on the air unlike anything he had ever known: sharp and bittersweet. Her memory called it 'diesel', a fuel unknown to Middle-Earth, somehow derived from the remains of ancient beasts dead for millions of years.

That oil seemed to be the basis for most of her world's machines, the cars and ships and airplanes. Middle-Earth had had no such beasts; if he wished to create something akin to oil, he must find another way. Once he had seen more of Lorna's mind, perhaps the smiths could forge something resembling an airplane: the thought of being to cover such great distances at such high speeds was one his mind could not let go of.

He wished she were one of those who could build or fly them; he knew from her knowledge that both were done by people with very specialized fields of study.

But if Edain could do it, so could Elves. According to her memory, what she called humanity had only been capable of building such things for little over a century. In fact, it was somewhat unsettling how far they had advanced in so short a time. A man had walked on their world's moon, over a decade before she was born. They had things called computers, and with them the internet, which could be used to find almost any piece of information that existed. Photographs, that showed images more accurately than the most detailed painting.

_Where are you, Lorna?_ he wondered, still picturing the ships._ Come back to me. Give me that fascinating mind of yours._

* * *

Elladan and Elrohir were unaccustomedly sober as they rode toward Dale.

When an Elf lost their mind, nothing good ever came of it, but Thranduil was king of one of only three Elven realms left in Middle-Earth. Had it not been winter, they would have snatched this mysterious Edain and made for their father's home at once, but as it was, they were effectively trapped until the snow began to melt. One of the Dúnedain would survive a journey from Dale to their settlements, but if this woman was one of them, Legolas surely would have said so.

"Do you think Thranduil will do something…foolish?" Elrohir asked.

"In all this snow? I don't think he can, no matter how mad he becomes," Elladan said. "In that, winter may be our blessing. The snows will only deepen. I worry that Legolas did not tell us why this Edain is so dangerous."

"If she were dangerous, we would not need to find her," Elrohir said. "While I do not relish the idea of winter in Dale, now I'm curious."

"The Edain have a saying," Elladan said, "Curiosity killed the cat'."

"And satisfaction brought it back," Elrohir retorted. "Poor Bard. I am sure he is pleased by none of this."

"Let us hope we need not add to his displeasure."

* * *

Lorna very quickly realized she'd got spoiled, living with the Elves. Life in Dale was a lot more work.

She'd slept rough quite a bit as a teenager, but she'd still had the benefits of modern society. Even living in her van she'd been able to get hot water for her tea in gas stations, but here everything was done by bucket and fireplace.

She'd not had to wash her own clothes with the Elves, but she'd be damned if she'd make any extra work for Bard's daughters – whose names, Menelwen told her, were Sigrid and Tilda. She learned how to use something that looked much like the old washboard that had hung on her granny's wall, and then the joy of wringing it all out. Lorna was a strong woman, but this required muscles she wasn't used to using.

Cooking was a hopeless failure. She'd only barely begun to learn how to use a modern stove while living with her sister, and after turning some would-be pancakes into cinders, she left that up to the others.

At least there was more than enough snow to shovel, which kept her busy. Bard had looked at her slightly askance when she asked, through Arandur, where the shovel was, but she'd stood firm, and as a result the walk was kept clear of snow even though it dumped a good eight inches in two days.

Keeping busy meant she didn't have time to think, which was often a blessing. For whatever reason, now that she had a roof over her head and a real bed to sleep in, the nightmares started coming in earnest.

Part of it, she was sure, was her curse. Though she stayed away from most of the people, they were still _there_, near enough that she could feel their thoughts, even if she couldn't hear them. There was plenty of background worry that was not her own, but the nightmares were all hers.

It was rare that she could remember any details, which was a mercy, because what she did remember was bad enough. Though Thranduil had been careful, she had still felt him in her mind, and somehow it was even more horrible than when the doctor had dug through her memories like a greedy kid with a bowl of pudding. That feeling was, somehow, the worst of it – having such a very alien presence invading her head. At least the doctor had been human.

She shuddered as she poured more hot water into the dish basin. There were times that Dale didn't seem far enough away, even with the impassable snow. She had to nip that fear before it became a phobia.

Tilda came up with an armload of plates, chattering away at Menelwen. Even washing dishes was a hell of a lot harder than it had been on Earth, since they had to be washed in one basin, and then rinsed in another. Between that and the laundry, Lorna's hands had turned red, then dried out and cracked. Sigrid had given her some sort of balm that, while effective, stank to high heaven. Menelwen wrinkled her nose, but did not comment.

Thank bloody God for Menelwen. Bard's daughters had a thousand and one questions, and she never failed to be a patient translator. Mostly they wanted to know why Lorna didn't really know how to _do_ anything, which could sometimes prompt a kind of Telephone translation from her to Arandur to Menelwen, if Lorna didn't know enough Sindarin and Menelwen didn't know enough English.

Faelon was often absent all day with Bard, but Menelwen seemed reluctant to leave, even when Arandur tried to drag her out into the city. _He_ was having the time of his life – out of all of them, he had truly benefited from their mini-exodus from Mirkwood.

But Menelwen, Lorna suspected, was homesick – which made Lorna feel like shit, since it was her fault the woman couldn't actually _go_ home. Menelwen never said anything, but she didn't need to; Lorna knew her well enough to see it in her eyes.

"You miss home, huh?" she asked in Sindarin, trying to scrub a particularly stubborn pot.

"I miss my home as it was," Menelwen said, rinsing a plate. "Were I to return, it would not be the same."

"It might go back that way, if Thranduil pulls his head out of his arse," Lorna said, mingling Sindarin and English.

Menelwen shook her head. "No. The guards – we have heard what he did. You are not an Elf – you cannot understand how horrifying such an act is to our people. It is something only done in circumstances of great desperation, and this was not one. I do not think I could serve him again, knowing that."

Had Lorna been a demonstrative person, she would have given Menelwen a hug. As she was not, she just gave her friend a nudge with her elbow. "We make new home. If not here, somewhere."

Lorna had always been good at making new homes, because she'd never been overly attached to the old ones. She couldn't imagine what it must be like for Menelwen, who had happily lived in the same place for centuries.

She finally got the last of the gunk from the pot, but before she could pass it over, Tilda broke into the kitchen and battled something at Menelwen, who paled.

"What?" Lorna asked.

"Elves," Menelwen breathed.

Lorna dropped the pot with a crash. _Fuck_.

* * *

Menelwen's initial terror eased when she saw that the newcomers were the sons of Elrond, not members of the Forest Guard. They assured her that they had no intention of hauling anyone anywhere, and were in fact here to wait for spring, so that they could take the four of them to the house of their father.

Menelwen was relieved, for more reasons than one. Kind though Bard and his family were, living in a city full of Edain unsettled her. The prospect of moving to another Elven realm cheered her greatly. "But how did you know we were here?" she asked, leading them into the house, where Tilda goggled and Lorna watched them warily.

"Prince Legolas sent us. He told us to make certain she came nowhere near his father's halls. I think he thinks the King has gone mad, though he would not say why." The twin – she had no idea if he was Elladan or Elrohir – looked at Lorna curiously. "Who is she?"

"_She_ has a name," Lorna said, still wary. She looked, in fact, half ready to hit him with the pot and bolt. "And I'm nobody. Thranduil fucked up, and now I 'm on the run, and I've dragged three've his people along for the ride."

Menelwen translated that as best she could, and the twin's eyes widened at her language.

"I like her," he said. "Elladan, can we keep her?"

"No one's keeping anyone," Menelwen said firmly. "Bard is going to be _so_ pleased by this development."

* * *

Bard was not, in fact, pleased. At all. But what could he do? He could hardly turn away the sons of royalty, even from so distant a kingdom. For the first time, he was grateful his house was so large.

The city was abuzz with speculation about their Elven guests, and since he had no idea what to tell them, he let them speculate. At least the new arrivals were a distraction from the monotony of winter, a kind of nine days' wonder. _His_ only wonder was when Dain would get wind of it, and send someone to investigate.

Meanwhile, he had a parlor full of Elves.

Sigrid and Tilda were enjoying it a little too much, gone starry-eyed over the handsome sons of Elrond. He could only thank Eru that Elves were an honorable people, or else he would be very worried. The three guards were watching with ill-concealed amusement, and Lorna was…knitting?

Sigrid must have given her needles and yarn, for she sat on the floor by the fireplace, looking quite content, knitting a scarf that was already a foot long.

Bard really did not know what to make of her. He would have expected a mortal embroiled in such Elvish intrigue to be special in some way, but there was nothing overtly remarkable about her. She was pretty, in a strange, wild sort of way, but no great beauty, and if she was especially brilliant at something, she had yet to show it. Tilda adored her; she was so maternal with his daughter that he wondered if she had ever been a mother herself.

She looked up at him, and by her expression, he would swear she had read his mind. She gave him a slight half-smile before returning to her knitting, but Bard suddenly felt deeply unsettled.

What had he let into his house?

* * *

Elladan and Elrohir, Lorna soon decided, were her kind of people – even if they did tease the life out of her for being so short. They treated her like a long-lost little sister, took to Irish cursing like ducks to water, and all in all, _she_ thought she was the one who would be keeping _them._

_Salt shakers_, she thought with a grin, even as Elladan held her knitting over his head, far out of her reach.

Between the six of them, Bard's house sparkled like new, for none of them could sit idle for long. They cleaned, they shoveled snow (and on one memorable day, started a snowball fight that seemed to spread across half the city), and then Elladan informed her it was time to begin weapons training.

"Where?" she asked. "Everywhere that's not a snow bank is covered in ice, and if you asked me to walk on ice with a sword, I'd put my own eye out."

"The city has a meeting hall, Lorna," he said, after working through her mix of languages. "When it is not in use, we will use it. I need to see what you can do, anyway."

"Not what _you_ do," she muttered. The thought of entering the center of town, with its pack of bloody people, mad her quail. "And anyway, I'm no use at all if I can't think because I'm hearing what everyone _else_ thinks."

"You must learn to control that, too," he said. "And I wish I could teach you, but I cannot. Tomorrow we will begin."

"Oh, _goody_," she sighed.

Sleep that night was long in coming, tired though she was. Lorna _could_ fight, and she could fight well and dirty, but not like that. She'd never actually used the switchblade she carried – it was mostly for intimidation, and use as a last resort that had never yet happened. She mostly relied on brute strength, of which she had an amount that usually shocked her opponents, and the bastardized form of hand-to-hand she'd learned from her old gang leader. He'd done a stint in the Army, and had taught the lot of them all he'd learned.

Lorna's main advantage was that she wasn't afraid to get hurt. Most people hesitated in a situation that could cause real injury, but she just sailed in. Doing that against an Elf, however, would only get her killed.

She had strength, and she had stamina. What she utterly lacked was any kind of skill as Elladan understood it – as well as the height necessary to use a sword without lopping her own foot off. She'd seen enough movies to be pretty sure a shrimp like her would be useless with one.

But Elladan seemed to think he had something to teach her, and since he'd been a warrior for like a thousand years, he probably knew his business. She just hoped she wouldn't prove too much of a disappointment.

* * *

When she woke the next morning, she made the unwelcome discovery that she'd fallen to the Communists overnight. Brilliant. Because she so needed to learn how to poke things with a sword while on her period.

She was perfectly willing to tell Elladan she couldn't do it today because her crotch was bleeding, but she doubted he'd let her of. He'd probably feed her some line about how she might someday have to fight when Aunt Flo was visiting – and the really annoying thing was that he'd be right.

"Fuck it," she muttered, and went to dig through her pack for what passed for her sanitary pads. The idea of using something you had to wash later had squicked her at first, but she'd got used to it. Except now she'd have no privacy to wash them in, unless she felt like hauling all that paraphernalia upstairs. It really was a damn good thing she had no shame.

What she did have, however, were cramps – deep, throbbing pain that dragged down at her abdomen. They weren't debilitating, but they weren't mild, either, and her already foul mood grew worse. She stomped down the stairs so she could heat some water to wash her face, grumbling to herself in Irish the entire time.

All the Elves were already up, of course – assuming they had even gone to bed – looking as poised and perfect as usual. Lorna's hair was a giant rat's nest; she'd washed it the evening before, and hadn't got it entirely dry before she went to bed.

Elladan bade her good-morning and she growled at him, stalking over to the big wrought-iron pot in the kitchen. His expression of surprise would have been comical, if she'd been in any mood to laugh.

"What is wrong with her?" he asked Arandur, as she ladled some water into a smaller pot.

"She gets this way once a month," Arandur said delicately. "If you still plan to train her today, be careful – she might actually try to kill you."

Elrohir choked on a laugh. "Our sister was much the same, in her youth. I think Elladan will survive."

Elladan took in her murderous expression, and didn't look so sure. He hopped to his feet and went up the stairs (oh so gracefully, the bastard), and when he returned, it was with a small silver flask. He handed it to her.

"What is it?" she asked, warily.

"It will help with your pain. I can do nothing for the rest of it, but you need not suffer that." There wasn't a hint of awkwardness in his face or voice – but then, if he had a sister, he'd be well used to this.

"Thanks," she said, and meant it. Whatever was in the flask tasted like vanilla and cinnamon, and set to work almost immediately. Maybe today wouldn't suck so badly after all. She could hope, anyway.

* * *

Privately, Elladan had his doubts about how much he could teach Lorna on a day like today, but at the very least, he could evaluate what she did know. He plotted as they made their way through the fresh snowfall.

He had no sword short enough for her, and in watching the way she moved, he thought they would not have enough time to train her to proficiency with one. Knives, on the other hand, might be perfect for her. Though she favored her left hand, she seemed able to use both almost equally, which was necessary for a knife fighter.

Not that he planned on giving her live steel today. It would be terribly embarrassing to be accidentally killed by his apprentice.

Arandur assured him she knew enough Sindarin to understand him – she just could not speak it very well, and tended to mix it with her native tongue. Both native tongues, the latter of which seemed to primarily consist of profanity.

When they reached the hall, they found that some considerate person had laid a fire, so that at least it did not feel as though they were entering an ice cave.

"We will not begin with weapons," he said, unbuckling his sword and setting it aside. "Attack me."

She clearly did have training of some kind. Her unsettling eyes darted over him, automatically searching for weak points, her stance such that she presented the smallest possible target. She did not look as though she were accustomed to using any weapon at all, which was odd.

She came at him with a speed that was somewhat impressive for an Edain. Though he caught her fist easily, he was somewhat less prepared for the kick she aimed at his knee. He tried to use his grip on her arm to twist her, and thus incapacitate her, but she was having none of that: she twisted herself, at the risk of breaking her elbow, and brought both feet up to kick him square in the chest. A taller person could not have done it; it would seem she was used to using her small size to her advantage.

She was also shockingly strong. Most Edain would have had the breath driven from them by a blow like that – but Elladan was not an Edain. Her strength, though quite abnormal for one of her kind, would not be enough to save her from an Elf.

Lorna actually scowled at how little effect her kick had, so she did something that shocked him into dropping her: she twisted and bit his hand. Hard.

"Do you often bite your opponents?" he asked, incredulously.

"It works," she said. "Not many expect it."

He looked down at his hand. Sweet Eru, she'd almost drawn blood. "All the same, you cannot go near enough an Elf to allow them to catch you, if you can avoid it. You are strong, but not strong enough. I am going to teach you knife-work today, but tonight I will find you a practice sword. Staying out of reach is your only chance."

"I always want to learn sword," she admitted. "People do not use them in my world."

Later, when he had Arandur at hand to translate, he wanted to know what they _did_ use. "There are few ways for an Edain to break an Elf's grasp, but in that your size may aid you. Come here."

She did, still wary, still searching for weak points she would not find.

He grabbed her, spinning her around and pinning her arms across her chest before he lifted her well off the ground, her back to his chest. "How would you break my hold, were I an Edain?"

She curled into a ball, planting her feet against his thighs (kicking him hard in the process), and used her leverage and the strength of her legs to try to throw them both forward. When it failed, she couldn't bite him this time – but she _could_ slam the back of her head into his nose.

It wasn't enough to make him drop her, but it was still a shock. Whoever had taught her to fight had no honor at all – but that was likely why she was still alive. "You cannot break free as you are," he said, glad she couldn't see him wince.

"So what do I do?" she asked, her tone practically dripping with exasperation.

"Use your mind. Trick me."

Lorna froze, and for a moment Elladan thought had had gone too far – that she had closed off. For a few moment she was utterly still—

And then there came a truly hideous crack, and she somehow twisted in his grip like a cat, kicking him in the ribs and slamming her forehead into his nose. This time he didn't need to drop her; she flung herself backward, twisting again so that she would not land on her back. When she stood, her expression was so venomous he wondered if she would try to murder him after all.

"_No_," she hissed. "I will not be Thranduil. I have not much honor, but I have _some_."

Elladan stared at her. "Did you – did you just dislocate your own shoulder?"

"Yes," she said, bracing her arm on a pillar and pushing it back into place with another sharp _crack_.

"_Why?_"

She looked at him as though he were completely stupid. "Because I could not dislocate yours."

* * *

Well, now her shoulder hurt like an absolute bitch, but Lorna didn't care. It wasn't the first time she'd done that to break someone's hold, and it probably wouldn't be the last. Searing rage had taken total possession of her every nerve, washing her vision red. She wanted to kill this pretty Elf-boy, who seemed to have no understanding of what he had just said. How dare he ask that of her? _How dare he?_

Her wrath kept the worst of her pain at bay, and this time she didn't charge him – she ducked and darted behind him, intent on leaping onto his back and trying to break his neck. Of course, it didn't work – but the chair she hit him with sure as hell startled him. _Fuck you, pretty boy._

He was wise enough not to grab her again, but that put her at a disadvantage. He was too good at deflecting everything she tried to hit him with, and if she couldn't hit him, she couldn't hurt him.

Finally she backed off, watching him watch her. Hitting him was useless, but surprising him seemed to work. Drawing a deep breath, she charged at him full-tilt. He obviously thought she meant to try punching him again, but she didn't – on her last step she jumped, and plowed into him like a rugby player on crystal meth.

He _must_ have been startled, for the force of her momentum actually knocked him over. That, she thought, was the only chance she'd have of fighting an Elf and coming out of it more or less alive: keep surprising them. Otherwise she'd be dead inside of five minutes.

Elladan's armor made kneeing him in the chest utterly pointless, but his throat was exposed, so she punched it while she had the chance to get a hit in. She still had just enough presence of mind not to try to tear it out with her teeth like a wild dog, but it was a near thing. She _did_ bite him on the chin, though, hard enough to draw blood, before he recovered enough to heave her off him.

"Don't you tell me to do that _ever_ again," she snarled, and spat his blood on the floor.

Elladan had at first held little confidence in Lorna's abilities. Oh, against an Edain she could well have been deadly, but the Eldar were not the Edain. Even with her skills, she would be dead in a very short amount of time. No, he had held little hope – until he made her angry.

He could not believe she had dislocated her own shoulder. It obviously pained her after she set it, but it did not stop her, and therein lay one of her two only chances: clearly, she was unafraid of pain. She was also likely to be severely underestimated, as he had done: had he known what she was capable of, he would have been able to counter it, but he _hadn't_ known.

He certainly knew it _now._ Still she stood, glaring at him, his blood still smeared across her teeth. She would never be able to fight Thranduil, should he in his madness come seeking her, but she could certainly get away from him.

"The question now," he said carefully, "is could you do that if I were armed?"

* * *

Elrohir was bored. There were only so many times he could groom his horse, and clean and sharpen his weapons. Sparring with Faelon and Menelwen passed a little time, but not enough.

He wanted to be the one to work with Lorna tomorrow – or did, until his brother returned bearing two bite-marks, one of them scabbed.

"I think I know where Thranduil caught his madness," Elladan said, shaking his head. "You are welcome to her tomorrow, brother, but be aware – she bites. And kicks. And will dislocate her own joints to escape a hold. Should Thranduil give chase and capture her, I almost feel sorry for him. For a moment, I thought she would try to rip my throat out."

Well, that was…disturbing. "One of the ravens arrived," Elrohir said. "Perhaps there will be little more time for training. Mithrandir is on his way. He has heard of Thranduil's madness."

Elladan did not bother asking how. Wizards, as they both knew, had their own ways of learning things.

"What did you do, to enrage her enough to do…that?" Elrohir asked.

Elladan sighed. "I told her to use her mind against me. Evidently it was the wrong order to give."

Elrohir shook his head. "Brother, you are an idiot. Look what touching Lorna's mind did to Thranduil – would you wish the same upon yourself? She calls it a curse for a reason."

Elladan paled; clearly, he had not thought of that. "I am glad she chose to bite me instead," he said. "Did the raven give any estimation as to when Mithrandir would arrive?"

"No, but knowing him, it will not be long. Do you think he can really be of aid to Thranduil?"

"I hope so," Elladan sighed. "If his madness is incurable, we may need to aid in deposing him. And such has never ended well for our people."

_No,_ Elrohir thought, _it hasn't_.

* * *

Lorna was still totally furious, so she went for a walk – well, swim – through the snow to calm down.

Her rage had faded enough that now her shoulder _really_ hurt, but the look on Elladan's face had been worth it. It was nice to know that Elves, those pretty, ethereal bastards, could be shocked by more than bad language.

She missed her sister. She missed being around people who could understand her (insofar as anyone understood her). It was true that she'd left little good behind her on Earth, but there had been _some_ – not least of which was indoor plumbing.

So they were going to the House of Elrond in the spring, huh? Lorna vaguely remembered the place from the book. It sounded nice, and there would probably be buildings with actual windows, which was a step up from Mirkwood. Maybe heading there would mean she wouldn't have to try learning Westron when her Sindarin was still so shitty.

She'd made it to the outer wall now, far enough away that she shouldn't be feeling any minds as more than background noise. Damn close, though, were two that shouldn't be there – Elves, by the feel of them, and not any of the five that ought to be here. Christ, had Thranduil actually sent more people after them?

Apparently, he had. Two of the Forest Guard – two that she knew – leapt down from the roof of a gazebo. Neither looked happy.

"Don't bother," Lorna said in Sindarin. "Come on, I take you to house of Bard." God, Bard was going to kill them. They really needed to find their own place, if they kept collecting Elves like this.

"We cannot go back without you," Sadronniel said, an undercurrent of misery in her tone.

"I've heard that before," Lorna muttered in English, and added in Sindarin, "So do not. We are making our own house."

"Lorna, we _cannot_. The King has lost his mind."

"Well, he can't have mine," she retorted. "I'm not going and you can't make me, so you might as well come _with_ me."

Sadronniel worked that out in her head, and sighed. "We can make you, Lorna," she said. "And we will, if we must."

Oh, _oh_, the Americans had a saying, right? Right. Lorna, her teeth still stuck with bits of Elladan's blood, grinned.

"Come at me, bro."

* * *

Fifteen minutes, a bloody nose, another dislocated shoulder, and two severely bitten Elves later, the trio marched into Bard's house. Thankfully the man himself was not home, because Lorna didn't want to imagine _what_ he would have made of it. "I've got company," she called. "Possibly permanent company, at least until Thranduil gets all his marbles back. _Christ_, my shoulder hurts."

Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a glance, and Elrohir burst out laughing. "At this rate, we will have our own realm within a decade."

"Salt shakers," Lorna said, heading to the kettle to get some water for her nose. She didn't bother elaborating. "So what's King Loony Toon been doing while we were away?"

Sadronniel looked wretched. "Working our smiths half to death," she sighed. "I believe he is trying to build some of the things he saw in your mind."

"Good luck with that," Lorna snorted wetting a dishrag and holding it under her nose. "Some of the materials don't exist here, and he won't find how to make them in _my_ mind. A lot've that shite's a lot more complex than it looks from the outside. And before you ask, no, I couldn't help. I'm not a mechanic, or an engineer."

She paused. It wasn't often she was hurt by people (in ways other than physical), but she kind of was now. Sadronniel and Beleg were her friends – or at least, she'd thought they were. "Would you really haul me back to Thranduil, knowing what he'd do to me?" she asked, in a stew of English and Sindarin. "That's cold."

"He would not hurt you," Beleg said, sounding like he knew just how crap a defense that was. "He does not wish to harm you, even now."

Lorna's glare could have stripped paint. "No," she snapped, "he'd just mind-rape me until I had nothing left that was my own."

It took some struggle with Arandur to properly translate that, and when he had, Beleg recoiled.

"Now you're getting it, huh?" she snarled.

Never yet had Lorna considered what Thranduil did to be a form of rape, but she couldn't help it now. To her literal-minded brain, the only thing that was rape was, well, _rape_, but in the purest definition of the term, that had been done to her twice now. It would not happen a third time – she didn't care who she had to kill, or how. Her mind was her own; nobody got to know what was in it but her. God only knew how much he'd taken in on his first try.

She threw the cloth aside, though her nose was still bleeding. "Fuck this," she growled, stalking outside and slamming the door behind her.

Snow had begun to fall – tiny white flakes that whirled and danced with the light breeze. God _damn_, why could she not cry? Everybody said tears were cathartic, but she'd only ever produced them when Liam died.

She stomped off through the swirling white, not knowing where she was going, and not caring. In this weather, any sensible person would be inside; she wasn't likely to run into anyone.

Or so she thought. As her head was down against the breeze, she didn't see the old man in the grey cloak before she collided with him.

"Sorry," she said in Sindarin, not knowing how to apologize in Westron.

"That's quite all right, my dear," he responded in Sindarin. "What are you doing out on a night like this?"

Lorna looked up. Bushy grey beard, equally bushy eyebrows, and a pointy hat dusted with snow.

"Holy shit," she said. "_Gandalf?_"

* * *

Yep, Gandalf has landed. Poor Bard now has a wizard to house, in addition to seven Elves and a human who seriously creeps him out.

Title means "Pursue" in Irish


	9. Ábhar Iontais

In which Thranduil realizes that Lorna is stealing his Elves (but not that it's because they're too afraid to come home), Lorna gets some bad news, Bard gives up on ever getting his normal life back, and the entire lot of them head for Erebor. (God help it. It has no idea what it's in for.)

* * *

Thranduil was growing tired of sending Elves to retrieve his strays, only to lose them. They could not possibly all be dying before they reached Dale; it would seem Lorna had begun collecting them.

Much as he wanted to march on Dale and grab all his traitors, he knew it was a thing he simply could not do, and not only because of the snow. Even in his madness, he could not risk open war with bard and Dain – not even for the wonders locked in Lorna's head.

If only he possessed Galadriel's power. She could read minds at great distance, with no need for physical contact of any kind. She, however, did not make anything near full use of her powers; she skimmed, leaving the depths of a mind unplumbed. It was, he thought, a waste of talent.

He had been over all he had of Lorna's memories many times now – even those that ought to have belong to her and her alone. He was not so far gone that he did not feel a twinge of guilt over it, but he did it anyway. He needed to know all he could about her, before he caught her.

Thranduil did not _want_ to have to force his way into her mind. He was not, even in the deep thrall of his sickness, a cruel or evil person. There had to be ways to persuade her, and he had to know what they were.

Unfortunately, that did not look likely. One very evident thing about her was that she could hold a grudge until the end of time, and even now he realized he had given her great cause to have one. There had to be a way around that, though – something he could say or do or gift her. Everyone had their price.

* * *

Seeing Gandalf – bloody _Gandalf_ – had shocked the rage right out of Lorna. Because seriously, this was _Gandalf_.

Once she'd finished goggling at him like a nutter, she asked where he was going in her fractured Sindarin. When he told her he had come to see Bard, she cringed.

Bard was going to kill them. _All_ of them.

She led the wizard to the house, though she had no doubt he already knew the way.

"What happened to your nose?" he asked, peering down at her.

Lorna wiped her nose on her sleeve – even in this cold, it was still bleeding. "I had a disagreement with some Elves. I hate to say this, but we have a problem. A big problem."

"I know," Gandalf said."I'm sorry you've been caught up in this, my dear."

"Caught up? This is my fault, if indirect. If I had not come here, this would not happen." It was true, too; if she hadn't been around for Thranduil to brain-rape, he wouldn't be completely off his nut now.

"Thranduil's actions are not your fault. While it is possible the Lady Galadriel can heal his sickness of the mind, and it would be quite dangerous for her, if I'm not mistaken. It has come from you, and it may be that you will need to take it back."

Lorna halted, skidding on the ice. "Wait, I have to _see_ that arsehole again?" she cried in English.

Though he could not have understood her words, he nevertheless seemed to know what she said. He paused, and looked down at her with remarkably piercing blue eyes. "You will not be unprepared," he said. "Thranduil's powers of the mind are far stronger than yours, but they are also different. In that difference, I believe, lies the cure. But come – it is much too cold to speak out here."

Bard did not look happy to see the wizard, when they entered his door and immediately shed snow everywhere, but he also did not look surprised. He did a slight double-take at the sight of Lorna's nose.

"It's fine," she said, despite knowing he wouldn't understand her. "I need a drink."

Dinner, courtesy of the girls and half the Elves, was delicious. There was also ale, for which Lorna could have hugged Bard, had he been around to hug.

Once the dishes were cleared away and washed, Lorna insisted on speaking to Gandalf alone, with only Arandur to translate if needed. This was not a subject she wanted to talk about with everyone right away.

The house had some kind of extra scullery that the family never used, so the three of them met in there. It was chilly, being so far from the fire, and very dark, as they'd only brought one candle, but Lorna was full and buzzed and as comfortable as she was going to be, given the circumstances. She sat on a barrel of salted pork, hoping she was not going to regret this.

Gandalf lit his pipe, and she inhaled reflexively when the smoke reached her. It glowed like a single red eye in the dark. "As I said, my dear, while Thranduil's power is vastly superior, it is also vastly different. I cannot think of any other reason touching your mind would affect him so."

"But if that is the way," Lorna tried in Sindarin, "would not be touching my mind again be worse?"

Gandalf gave her a look of deep sympathy from beneath his bushy eyebrows. "Your mind recognized Thranduil's invasion as an attack. I believe that what has happened to him now is the result of it attacking back, without your will or knowledge."

"So my curse poisoned him on purpose?" she asked. She wasn't sure if she should be impressed or horrified. Maybe both.

After Arandur had translated the English bits of that sentence, Gandalf said, "More or less. What you need to learn, I cannot properly teach you, but I can lay a foundation. It would be easiest if you allowed me into your mind, but I understand that I cannot ask that of you."

Lorna shuddered. "Aye,_ nope_. What can I do, on my own?"

"You trust Arandur, do you not?" he asked. She nodded. "The Elves naturally shield their thoughts. Should he prove willing, perhaps you might seek to listen. Maybe Elves are capable of it: listening is a very different thing than what Thranduil did to you. If you can control your gift, you can do as the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond do."

Lorna arched an eyebrow. "Gift?" she questioned, glancing at Arandur. She couldn't tell what he thought of letting her play telepath with him, but if she was him, she'd hate it. "Not a gift. It has brought only bad." It had made her life suck, then gone on to infect Thranduil somehow, turning him into a complete mentaller…oh.

Oh shite.

"What if other Elves touch Thranduil's mind?" she asked. "Could it make-" she didn't know the word for 'epidemic', so she played charades with Arandur until she got it right.

"It could," Gandalf said, refilling his pipe, "but I doubt it will. None in the Woodland Realm would dare look into their King's mind without permission, and that he would not give."

"Wish he was so considerate," she muttered in English, hugging her knees.

Yet again, Gandalf seemed to take her meaning without actually knowing what she said. "I know this is difficult for you to believe, Lorna, because he has done something truly terrible to you, but Thranduil is not by nature an evil being. Unbalanced, yes, which at times had led him to make very bad decisions."

"Does it have something to do with why half his face is banjaxed?" she asked, and waited for Arandur to untangle that mess of English and Sindarin.

Gandalf did not seem at all surprised she'd seen that, though Arandur obviously was. Oops. Maybe she should have mentioned that at some point before now. "Yes," Gandalf said. "That, coupled with the loss of his wife, broke him badly."

Lorna knew she ought to have sympathy for him, and on some level she did, but he'd made such a mess of her life that she couldn't feel _too_ sorry for him. She'd watched her husband die, and lost the child she'd carried, but she didn't go barking mad and stay there.

_He's not you_, she thought, grudging though she was about cutting him any slack. _You don't know how his wife died, or why._

_I don't care_, some nasty part of her countered. That's no manner of excuse at all for what he did to me.

"You are right," she said aloud. "I _do_ have a hard time believe it. I can only take your word for it." Gandalf ought to know, because he was, well, _Gandalf_.

He gave her a small smile. "Your shoulder pains you," he said, and it wasn't a question.

She grimaced. "I did something stupid today. Stupid, but I had to do it once." She sighed. "I do not know how I can face Thranduil again. There is not much I am fear of, but he scares me. And that makes me angry." She wished she knew enough Sindarin to convey the full depth of her rage and terror, but she didn't. Part of her did pity Thranduil, but it was a small part. Most of her wanted to kill him.

"You will be able to, when the time comes. And I hope that in time, you will come to forgive him. Not for his sake," he added, forestalling her outraged protest, "but for yours. To carry such a grudge would poison your life."

Lorna wasn't so sure about that. She had a collection of grudges, some of which she'd nursed for decades – but then, this was a very _big_ grudge. And Gandalf, being Gandalf, probably knew what he was talking about there, too. "I'll try," she said, absently rubbing her shoulder.

"Here," he said, reaching out and laying a hand on it. Soothing warmth traveled through it, all the way down her arm.

"Thanks," she said, flexing her fingers. "_That_ is a gift. Poisoning creepy Elves? Not so much."

Arandur choked on a laugh. "You must be cold, Lorna," he said. "And you have done much this day. Go sleep."

She didn't need much in the way of urging; it was chilly in here, and she really was tired. She hopped off the barrel, stretching her legs, which had almost gone numb.

When she reached her room, she found that some thoughtful soul had laid on a fire, so it was toasty warm. It would be cold enough come morning, but the bed had heavy, beautifully intricate quilts as well as sturdy sheets of what felt like flannel, and Tilda had given her a warm nightgown that she'd outgrown. (It figured that twelve-year-old's pajamas would fit Lorna.)

She carefully washed her face, though the water in the basin was frigid. If the house had a mirror, she hadn't found it yet, and just now realized she'd not seen her own reflection in months. Huh. It didn't really matter, since she didn't need a mirror to braid her hair, but she wondered if she looked as changed as she felt.

Pajamas donned, she crawled under the covers and curled up in a ball. Even with Gandalf's help with her shoulder, she'd still be bloody sore tomorrow. Between that and her blasted period, she wasn't training for at least the next day, no matter what anyone said.

* * *

Bard gave up. He just…gave up.

He had known Mithrandir was on his way, and indeed looked forward to the wizard's arrival, if it meant he could get rid of his houseguests. What he had _not_ anticipated was gaining more Elves – both of whom, like the others, feared Thranduil too much to return to their own home. After the day he'd just had, it was the last thing he needed.

Dain had finally got wind of his problem, and had insisted the lot of them trek into Erebor for dinner tomorrow. Bard dreaded that as he had dreaded few earthly things – he didn't know what Dain would do with news of King Thranduil's…malady…but it probably wasn't anything good. Thank Eru for the snowfall, which was handily trapping almost everyone in their own kingdoms. And now that Mithrandir was here, they had actual hope of dealing with this mess before it melted, and somebody went to war.

At least the Elves had made dinner, and made it far better than he or the girls could have. They'd kept it warm for him, too, and let him wolf it down in silence. Lorna had gone to bed, but Sigrid and Tilda had sat up waiting for him, as they always did when he was late coming home.

"Dain wants us for dinner tomorrow," he said, pushing back his plate. Had he been in a better mood, their identical expressions of dismay would have made him laugh. Only Arandur, the youngest, and one of the sons of Elrond – Bard could not tell which – looked intrigued. Somehow, that worried him. The twins were more jovial and less reserved than any other Elves he had ever met, and that would either go over well with Dain, or be an utter disaster.

"How much does he know?" Arandur asked, collecting Bard's plate and depositing it in the washbasin.

"Only that your King appears to have lost his mind. I did not think telling him more would be wise."

"You were right," Mithrandir said, knocking his pipe against the side of the fireplace to clear it. The fire itself had burned low, casting the room red and orange, and Bard went to his favorite chair so that he might drive the chill from his bones. "Allow me to handle that," Mithrandir went on. "We will have to be honest with him, but there is such a thing as too much honesty. I do worry that Lorna will not fare well among so many people. _That_ he will have to be told, and why. She was in a foul enough mood when I found her, and did not at all like what I had to tell her."

He packed his pipe and lit it, looking at the twins. "I know you will wish to involve your grandmother, but I fear the danger. Should she probe too deeply into Thranduil's mind, she might risk infection from his curse."

One of the twins shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I still do not understand how a mortal's curse could…infect…King Thranduil. His power is not so great as Grandmother's, but surely it is far beyond Lorna's."

"Oh, it is," Mithrandir agreed. "Very much so. The trouble, as I told Lorna, is that her magic is very different. Thranduil had no immunity to it; it has, I suspect, latched onto his mind like an actual sickness, and festered. It must be cured, and soon, or I fear whatever damage it does might be irreparable."

"But how can it be cured?" Menelwen asked.

Mithrandir sighed. "I am not yet certain. I know what must be done, but not how to do it."

Bard wondered if the wizard would be able to help after all.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she was every bit as sore as she'd expected, but somehow, she was in a much better mood.

Sigrid helped her haul enough water upstairs for her to take a bath, though washing her hair was beyond her at the moment. Her entire body was a fantastic patchwork of bruises; Elves, even when not trying to actively hurt someone, hit hard.

The clothes she'd worn from Mirkwood were starting to look a bit shabby, but since they were the only trousers she could find, she put them on anyway. There was a particularly amazing bruise on her left thigh, where Beleg had kicked her: it was so dark a purple it almost looked black.

She was still right pissed off at those two, and likely would be for some time. The bloody nerve of him – _oh, Thranduil won't actually_ wound _you, so that's all right_. The unforgiving part of her didn't care that they'd probably been threatened – she'd not roll over on a friend like that. She'd never be able to live with herself if she did.

Clean, dressed, and as comfortable as she was going to be, she sat by the fire to comb her hair. Though she was used to living in crowded spaces, she wasn't yet ready to deal with the entire lot down there.

So she had to deal with Thranduil again. In a way, that might be a good thing; if she didn't kill this fear of him, she'd never be rid of it. Yes, he had the advantage over her in pretty much every way there was, but she was a stubborn little bastard – whether he wanted to kill her, mind-rape her, or both, she'd not make it easy for him.

Lorna had to accept that there was a very real chance she would die doing this, no matter what her turncoat friends said. While she knew very little about Thranduil, you didn't get to be King of the Elves by being a pansy. He probably had more experience of being a warrior than Elladan had of being alive – the tricks she'd used against Elladan, Beleg, and Sadronniel probably wouldn't be worth a tin shit around Thranduil.

Did she want to die? Fuck no. Even with all this mess hanging over her head, she'd been happier here than she'd ever been in her life, except for her time with Liam. Middle-Earth was a sight more beautiful than anything she'd ever known on Earth, even if it _was_ a lot more work to live here. She really wished she'd not taken indoor plumbing so much for granted.

No, she didn't want to die, but she'd best make peace with the thought that she _might_. And she'd best do it soon.

* * *

Arandur did not quite know how to behave to Beleg and Sadronniel.

Faelon and Menelwen had been sent to retrieve he and Lorna as well, but they hadn't actually tried to do it. Sadronniel and Beleg very obviously had, given how scratched, bruised and bitten they were.

At least he was not alone in that quandary; Faelon and Menelwen seemed just as uneasy. Their little group was unsettled now, and he did not know how to fix it.

Unlike the rest of them, he was somewhat looking forward to dinner with King Dain, rude though the Dwarf would probably be. He'd learned so much about the Edain; now he was curious about the Dwarves. It was no secret that Tauriel had fallen in love with one, poorly though it had ended, and Arandur was young enough that the ages-old prejudice had not yet deeply ingrained itself. He knew enough about Dain to be certain that their welcome would be interesting, but not necessarily pleasant, but that didn't mean they would _all_ be like that.

He felt somewhat guilty. Being driven out of the Woodland Realm was the best thing that had ever happened to him, but he knew none o the others felt that way – not even Lorna, who had enjoyed her months in the halls. He felt like a flower suddenly given sunlight, reaching to heights he had not known existed. The wide world was a wonderful, fascinating place, if uncomfortable at times. He wanted to see everything, and being Eldar, he had eternity to do it.

He just hoped he would survive whatever would come.

* * *

Lorna spent the day being rather lazy. It was the first time she'd done so since her initial imprisonment right after her arrival, and it made her feel strangely restless.

Arandur had told her of their invitation, such as it was, and she had to admit she was excited. She remembered the Dwarves very well, long though it had been since she read the book. The only annoying thing was that she wouldn't be able to speak directly to them and actually be understood.

Tilda tried to loan her a dress to wear, as she had no other clothes. It was a pretty thing, cornflower-blue – but it was very obviously a teenage girl's dress. Lorna would look like a bloody idiot. She thanked Tilda through Menelwen, and kept her ordinary clothes. They were serviceable, especially for the likes of her, and they fit better than anything else she was likely to find in Dale on such short notice.

She did let Tilda comb and style her hair, doing something a little fancier than its habitual braid. Most of it was left down, which was a little disconcerting to feel, with what felt like a French braid running around her head like a crown.

Tilda sat back, surveying her handiwork with satisfaction. She said something to Menelwen, who translated, "She says 'There, now you have a silver crown. No one will notice your clothes.'"

Lorna laughed. "Tell her I say thank you. It's been a long while since anyone's done my hair." _Not since Mam_, she thought. "Has she got a mirror anywhere?"

Menelwen asked Tilda, who beckoned Lorna to follow her. In Sigrid's room, apparently, was their late mother's mirror – not large, but Lorna wouldn't figure anybody but a rich person would have a big mirror here.

Her reflection surprised her. She looked mostly the same – her features had not changed, but there was less wariness in her expression, even with all that had been going on lately. Tilda's braid would have done a professional hairdresser proud, and weirdly, she was right. The grey – which had advanced considerably – really _did_ look silver. If that was the result of Elf-shampoo, she wanted more of it.

Well, she'd look like an odd one tonight: a tiny human woman, with well-worn Elven clothes, and a hairstyle fit for a queen. Whether good or bad, she'd definitely made an impression.

She was careful not to jostle her hair as she put her cloak on, not wanting to undo Tilda's lovely handiwork. Evidently they'd be riding to the mountain on horseback, which she had no idea how to do, so she'd be riding pillion with Menelwen.

When they went outside, the air was so cold as thought her eyeballs might freeze, so she hoped the ride would be a short one. The sunset was downright spectacular – a smear of searing red and orange across the western sky, tinting the snow crimson where it touched, and casting long blue shadows where it didn't.

The horse was so huge that its back was level with the top of Lorna's head. Even with Menelwen's help, she couldn't mount the damn beat; Faelon had to pick her up as though she were a child, and set her in place. Once settled, she gripped Menelwen for dear life, ignoring the pain in her shoulder – she didn't want to know _what_ she'd break if she fell off. If she ducked her head into her hood, she didn't have to see how high off the ground they were, and it would have the added benefit of keeping her ears from freezing off.

Menelwen kicked the horse into what was probably a canter, and Lorna swore, creatively and at length. All right, there was most definitely one thing she missed about Earth: _cars_. Even her old lemon of a van, which was mostly held together with duct tape and prayer, was better than this bullshit. She gripped Menelwen so tightly that it probably would have squeezed the breath out of a human. The cold wind snuck around the edges of her cloak until her teeth started to chatter. _Christ_, the Dwarves had better have good beer.

The entire nonsense went on for far too long; by the time they reached their destination, her extremities had gone so numb that she honestly wondered if she would be able to walk. Fortunately, Menelwen was way ahead of her, and caught her when she dismounted/fell.

"You have never ridden a horse?" the Elf said, laughter in her bright blue eyes.

"No," Lorna said darkly, "and I do not want to do again."

"Well, you have to, to get back." Menelwen said. "Now that deep winter has set in, you would freeze if you walked on your own."

Lorna would believe it. With the sun gone down, it was even colder; her breath seemed to form a cloud around her.

It was too dark to properly see most of their surroundings, but firelight poured out the open gates. Very massive gates, too; you could probably stack two of those London double-decker buses and still had room to drive through. It was manned by Dwarves in armor so ornate that she suddenly felt very shabby. They raked the entire group with appraising eyes, and the one on the right spoke.

"He says 'Welcome to Erebor'," Menelwen translated.

Lorna grinned. "Thanks, mate."

* * *

So seven Elves, four humans, and a wizard walk into a Dwarf-hall…there's a joke in there somewhere.

Title means "Surprise" in Irish.


	10. Am Páirtí

In which Lorna decides she utterly adores Dwarves, Dain and Balin really want to know just what the fuck is going on (and get no real answers), and Thranduil decides it's time to take creepiness to a new level.

* * *

Erebor, Lorna discovered, was every bit as beautiful as Mirkwood's halls – just in a different way. Where the Elves seemed to favor smooth, flowing lines, the Dwarves appeared to be more partial to strong geometric shapes, and some of their patterns actually looked vaguely Celtic.

She tried not to stare at the Dwarf who greeted them, but it was hard not to. For one thing, he wasn't actually a great deal shorter than her – three or four minutes at most – and three-quarters of his face was taken up by a bushy red beard. His impressive eyebrows arguably took up another eighth.

She entered the main hall with trepidation, though. She could feel all the thousands of minds inside, and didn't want to imagine what hell it would be, to be surrounded by them. As much as part of her wanted to explore the entire damn mountain, her pragmatic side hoped King Dain didn't want to meet with them at the center. She'd ruin the party if she were curled up twitching under a table. Hopefully Gandalf had been as good as his word, and warned Dain what he'd be dealing with.

The entrance hall, just like that in Mirkwood, was stupidly huge, the black stone polished until it was smooth as glass, and she'd swear the floor was solid gold. It reflected the light of what looked to be dozens of torches, each flickering and sputtering. She could understand why Elves would want to live in places with such high ceilings – they were, so far as she was concerned, all unnaturally tall – but why the hell would people shorter than her carve out a place like this? Hell, how had they _done_ it?

Their Dwarf-guide, without pausing a step, handed her a silver flask. "What is it?" she asked Menelwen, who asked him.

"It is-" and Lorna could tell she was fighting a grimace "— A Dwarvish mead that will, he says, make you unable to hear your own thoughts, let alone anyone else's."

Lorna eyed it speculatively. If they wanted to poison her, for whatever reason, they wouldn't do it so publicly. With a mental shrug, she tipped it back and swallowed half of it at one go.

It burned like Fireball whiskey, and she damn near choked. "Chris," she said, wheezing a little, "that'll put hair on your chest."

Menelwen translated that for the benefit of their guide, who burst into a deep, rolling laugh. His eyes were suddenly much more friendly.

He wasn't wrong about the liquor, either. Lorna might have the alcohol tolerance that Time forgot, but this hit her with a buzz almost immediately. She could still feel those thousands of minds, but she no longer cared, and she was definitely no longer cold.

Years of cheating field sobriety tests to avoid being arrested for drunk and disorderly meant she could keep following him in a straight line, too, but it took a lot of effort. She was still able to take in the massive columns, and the mammoth tapestries that seemed to commemorate a lot of battles. They were beautifully intricate things, and had probably taken years to weave, or however it was you made tapestries.

The one at the center would seem to be the most important, and _that_ one she knew the story behind: it showed the mountain at the left, with a space of blue water between it and Lake-Town at the far right. Between them was what looked like Smaug in his death-throes, in disturbingly realistic detail. It really was a good thing he'd been killed _outside_ the mountain, or they would have been years cutting up his carcass.

She didn't realize she'd said that aloud until their guide burst out laughing again. Menelwen must have translated it accurately.

"Well, it's true," Lorna said. "It would've been right nasty."

They passed through another hall, this one teeming with Dwarves, and she winced, downing the rest of the flask. Menelwen gave her a concerned look, so she gave a thumb's-up. "Trust me, you'd know if I wasn't fine," she said, mostly in English. "I smell food. Where are we going?"

Menelwen asked the Dwarf, then translated, "He says that because of your…condition…King Dain will dine with us in one of the lesser council chambers, away from the crowd."

"Thank bloody God."

Their Dwarf-guide seemed to be more amused than not. He led them down a long hallway, slightly less massive, and the dull throb of assaulting thoughts grew less relentless. Here too there was torchlight, and it was so strange, she thought, that it could be so different from the light in Thranduil's caves, yet be made of the same substance. She was pretty sure there was a profound thought in there, lost somewhere in the sea of booze, but she couldn't try to find it and walk at the same time.

Lorna wondered if Elves and Dwarves would ever really get on. Earth had all sorts of prejudices and racism, and they were all the same species. Her Nana, Da's Mam, had been Romani, and the prejudice against them had been filtered down even to Lorna and her siblings, who knew next to nothing about the culture. When she'd been young, the wrong side of Dublin hadn't exactly been a diverse place, so she and her brothers and sister stuck out badly. If humans could be so terrible to one another over something like skin color, what chance did two different species have?

Oh, Tauriel had fallen in love with a Dwarf, and Arandur, by the look of him, seemed disposed to like them, but that was two people out of millions. Even the other Elves, except for Elladan and Elrohir, were very…careful. Restrained, in ways she knew they were not normally. She had little doubt they were deliberately trying not to do anything that would cause offense.

Admittedly, they were in a difficult position. If they did something that caused trouble between Dain and Bard, and Bard had to kick them out for form's sake, they'd be bloody screwed – and her with them, come to that. They could hardly go back to Mirkwood, and Elladan and Elrohir seemed pretty convinced they'd not make it to Rivendell in all this snow. It would be starve or freeze, whichever came first.

Well. The Dwarves already seemed like her kind of people – she'd just have to keep them distracted. This one already appeared to like her, or at least find her amusing.

The room he led them into shouldn't be called a 'lesser' anything. It was massive – it could easily seat two hundred people, and still have plenty of elbow room left over. A fire roared in a fireplace easily as tall as her, and it was lit up by so many torches it was almost as bright as an electric bulb on Earth. The tables were all very long, and made of some dark, mirror-polished wood, with benches on either side. Two of them were loaded with far more food than eleven people could ever hope to eat, and all of it smelled delicious.

A throne sat at the far end of the room, ornately carved out of stone and wood, and on it sat a Dwarf who must have been King Dain.

Lorna looked at him curiously, already too drunk not to stare. Like their guide, he too was red-haired, with small bones fastened into his beard like boar's tusks. While his clothing was a rich mix of black and red and gold, it was still practical, unlike Thranduil's trailing robes.

How strange it was, that the three rulers should be so different. Thranduil was cold and beautiful and terrifying; Bard was pragmatic and often weary, and looked so like Liam that it still hurt at times, and Dain looked like he'd be an absolute nightmare in a pub fight. She wondered if he'd ever been in one, and what had happened to the losers.

The others bowed, so she did too, a little awkwardly. Hey, she came from a country without royalty; she didn't know what she was doing. So sue her.

His bright eyes roved over them all with a curiosity to rival her own. He was probably wondering if the story he'd been told was true, and she couldn't blame him – it did sound mad even to her, and she'd _lived_ it.

* * *

Dain was indeed wondering if the yarn he'd been spun had any truth to it. They certainly_ looked_ like an odd enough lot – seven Elves, four of whom looked less than happy; Bard, who just looked weary; his two daughters, who both seemed delighted; Gandalf, who was worryingly amused, and one woman, whose curiosity was an almost palpable thing. Gloin had obviously given her the cordial, if her red face and slightly glassy eyes were any indication.

"Is this the one who's caused all this trouble?" he asked.

"She is at the center of it," Gandalf said, "but it is not her fault. Her name is Lorna."

Odd name, that. Dain had traveled much in his youth, and never heard the like of it. There was far more to this story than he'd been told, and he wanted to know the rest of it.

From everything he could gather, Thranduil seemed to have gone weird in the head – enough that five of those Elves had defected from his realm. The other two, Dain had been informed, were the sons of Elrond, and they looked rather less reserved. From all he'd heard of Elrond, they'd likely grown up being far more accustomed to other races than the insular Mirkwood Elves. One of _them_, however, seemed far more fascinated than wary – he looked young, even for an Elf. This had to be the one who had been roaming about Dale, taking notes on everything.

The woman was an oddity. It was patently obvious she was neither Elf nor Dwarf, but she didn't seem fully like a daughter of Men, either. There was something downright creepy about her, and it wasn't just her eyes, which were rather unsettling.

"Can you understand me, lass?" he asked.

"She cannot," Gandalf said. "Her native tongue is not Westron. The Elves have taught her Sindarin, but she lacks proficiency."

"Where has she come from?"

"A small island to the south," the young Elf said, "called Ireland."

Dain had never heard of it, but he wasn't very familiar with the southern lands. She certainly had the complexion for it. "Well, tell her she's not enjoyed a proper Dwarf meal until she's eaten herself sick at least once, and dig in." He'd laid on a large amount of ale, hoping to loosen a few tongues before the night was through. Those blasted tree-huggers didn't seem able to get drunk on any but that Dorwinion, but Bard and his eldest daughter were another story.

The lad, Bain, would join them once he was through with his duties for the day, which ought to be soon. Maybe he could extract some information from his father about the odd group of guests who had all but taken over Bard's house. What would he do, if more showed up?

_Probably tear his hair out_. Dain did feel genuinely sorry for him, for all the situation was undeniably amusing. The man was far more worried about angering Thranduil than Dain, and not without reason – Dale still had no real army to speak of, whereas Erebor had one that could rival Thranduil's.

He needed to make it known to Bard that he'd shelter the folk of Dale, should Thranduil totally lose his mind and actually march to war. Ever since he'd first met the Elvenking, he'd thought there was something…off…about him; if Thranduil really had gone mad, Dain would not be surprised. He just wished he knew how those Elves and the woman fit into it.

Oh well. He'd know before long, whether by speech or by spy.

* * *

Lorna thought she'd died and gone to culinary heaven.

It wasn't just the beer – which was fantastic – but the four different kinds of roast meat, with dozens of sauces to dip it in. There were cakes, and candied fruits, and what looked and tasted for all the world like chocolate cream pie (which she ate half of). Bard looked at her with increasing disbelief, probably wondering how such a tiny person could cram so much food down their throat.

She was quite drunk by the time she met his son, Bain. The boy looked very like his father, but less careworn, and he dug into the food with gusto.

Dain surveyed them all with the look of someone who knew he'd set up a grand party. Now that Lorna was well and truly ossified, he started bringing in more Dwarves, one by one, apparently trusting that her alcohol-addled brain wouldn't be overwhelmed. It worked, too.

One of them, an older bloke with white hair and beard, spoke Sindarin. Lorna almost choked on her ale when he gave his name as Balin – that was, if she remembered correctly, the name of one of Thorin's Company. She asked him endless questions about the quest, to bolloxed to remember that she shouldn't know most of it.

"You sound like you've had a tale yourself," he said, dishing up more meat. Somehow, they made it to the fireplace without her falling in it.

In that moment, Lorna's saving grace was her awful Sindarin. "You've no idea," she said, mixing it with English. "None at all. Most've mine's not half so interesting as yours – just more uncomfortable."

"Dain tells me you're from a place called Ireland," Balin prompted.

"I am. Erin go Braugh. It's far away. Very, very far away. It's not go anything so beautiful as this – not anymore. So much has got small and bland and polluted."

He was obviously understanding about one word in three, but he listened patiently anyway, eating quite delicately compared to her. "How long will you be staying with Bard?"

"Until spring, if he doesn't give the lot've us the boot first. If we keep collecting Elves, he just might, I think. They get out here and they're too afraid to go home. I hope they come to Rivendell with us. Well, most've 'em. I could do without Beleg and Sadronniel, to be honest." She sat on the floor, back to the edge of the fireplace, draining her ale. She still had enough presence of mind not to blab everything she knew about Thranduil, but it was a near thing.

"Well, anyone who can drink like you is welcome here anytime," Balin said, eyes twinkling. "You'd do a Dwarf proud, putting away all that ale."

Lorna laughed. "'S one've my few talents," she said. "That and swearing. Think I need s'more, actually."

* * *

_Well_, Balin thought, _if it's real information Dain wants, he'll be disappointed_. He could comprehend the lass, more or less, and she knew a sight more about some things than he was strictly comfortable with.

If she knew much at all about what was wrong with Thranduil, she wasn't saying – or if she was, it was in her own language. He didn't dare bring over any of the Elves to translate, because he didn't want them knowing what he was doing. They'd not take kindly to him interrogating their friend when she was too drunk to know any better.

Dain might not be too worried about Thranduil – yet – but Balin was. The snow was their friend, but it would not linger forever. Should Thranduil get it into his cracked head to go to war, the only thing that might stop him would be if his people refused. And that, unfortunately, wasn't likely. If there was one thing Elves and Dwarves had in common, it was that they were loyal to their leaders – to a fault. If Thranduil told them to march on Erebor, march they would, no matter what they privately thought about it.

Lorna staggered back to him, bearing two mugs of ale. How she was even _walking_, he didn't know; he'd spoken truth when he said she could drink enough to make a Dwarf proud. With her height, he wondered if she had any Dwarvish ancestry.

Dain had told him what little she'd said of herself, through interpreters, and he didn't believe for a moment that that was the whole of it. He knew much more of Middle-Earth's geography than Dain – there was no such place as Ireland. Her language was also like nothing he'd ever heard tell of. There was some mystery there, but he could not imagine what it was.

He glanced at the rest of them. The sons of Elrond seemed a merry pair; he'd not seen them, when he'd passed through Rivendell. Unlike the other Elves, they weren't reserved at all – they merrily toasted the others, and easily ate enough for two people each. The youngest Elf, Arandur, also seemed much too curious to be wary, talking animatedly to everyone he saw. Bard had drunk enough to be relaxed, and both his elder children were on their way.

Gandalf was the one who had him worried. Though the wizard had been amused earlier, now his joviality was forced – something was concerning him, and Balin could only think of one thing it could be.

_Damn and blast Thranduil_, he thought. Why could Elves not be more like Men, and depose their mad kings? It would make things easier for their neighbors, so long as they kept their infighting in their own kingdom.

At least Dain was taking the idea seriously – but not _too_ seriously. The last thing anyone needed was for him to preemptively go to war. They'd had peace between the two kingdoms for five years; if it was to be broken, it would not be by the Dwarves.

* * *

Dwarves, Lorna discovered, had brilliant drinking songs, and sang them as loud and joyfully as any Irish pub-goers. True, Arandur had to translate them for her, which didn't always work, but like pub songs in English, they were mostly about drinking. Even their King got in on it, not too high and snooty to involve himself with the plebes.

Currently she half-sat, half-lay on one of the benches, utterly content. If things didn't work out with Elrond, she could happily live in a Dwarf hall. She probably wouldn't' feel that way tomorrow; the morning-after was likely to make her want to die, but for now she loved the idea. It, and pretty much everything else.

Arandur, who was obviously enjoying himself, and who was also probably drunk, wove his way through the crowd to sit beside her. "I do not know why our peoples have been at odds for so long," he said, shouting a little to be heard over the din. "Their culture is fascinating, even if the food is a bit much."

"Speak for yourself on the food," she laughed. "Reminds me've home, to be honest. Sticks to your ribs."

"That is one way to put it. You will suffer for it tomorrow," he said.

"Oh, I will," she agreed cheerfully, downing the rest of her ale. By now she'd lost count of how many she'd had – enough that it didn't matter anymore. At this rate, they'd have to tie her to Menelwen to keep her on the horse for the ride home.

She started drowsing where she sat, letting the dink of speech and music wash over her. The smell of meat and smoke was oddly soothing, and she basked in the warmth of the fireplace. She could easily stay like this forever, she thought, just before she nodded off.

_At first, she thought it was a dream; later, she would wish it was._

_The sounds of battle surrounded her, harsh and unforgiving. She didn't know where she was, or why, but the stench of burning meat and fat hung greasy in the air. All around her was a confusion of darkness and flame, and a terrible roar all but ruptured her eardrums._

_She had a sword, for some reason, but the hand that held it was far whiter than her own, and much larger. Even within the dream she was choking on the fumes, lungs burning as she scaled a slope that was nearly vertical._

_Fire and shadow coalesced into a coherent image: it was a dragon, solid black, far larger than any jumbo jet. It sat atop a craggy peak, washing the slopes with searing flame. Why in bloody flying fuck was she headed toward the thing? She wanted to turn and run, but, with the stubbornness of dreams, her feet would not obey. Apparently she had a mission to fulfill, whether she liked it or not._

_Up and up she went, and breathing became harder than ever. She made it stupidly close to the damn dragon before it turned its attention to her, and then there was only pain, the left side of her face scorching –_

She woke with a start, and blinked hard a few times. Christ, she'd had plenty of nightmares lately, but _that_ was a new one. It definitely called for another drink.

Arandur was looking at her with concern, but she waved him off. Less easily put off was Gandalf, who appeared at her side with unnerving speed.

"Are you quite all right, my dear?" he asked, his eyes as shrewd as they were troubled.

"I am. Just dropped off and had a nightmare." She knew where the heat and smell of meat had come from, since she was surrounded by both.

Gandalf didn't look at all convinced, but she doubted he'd press it in front of all these Dwarves. Knowing him, he'd corner her when she was alone and hungover, and wouldn't be able to keep anything back.

She needed to move, or she'd fall asleep again. Walking was an interesting adventure, but she managed to make it to one of the pies, which she slowly consumed with all the purpose of a soldier on a mission.

Music started up with a suddenness that made her jump, and then one of the twins – it had to be Elrohir, since there was no bite-mark on his jaw – tried to drag her out for a dance. She almost pitched over straight onto her face.

He laughed at her. "Your middle name is not Grace, is it?"

"No, it's Saoirse," she said, trying not to stomp on his foot and failing.

"Sheersa?" he asked, turning the word over in his mouth.

"Means 'freedom'," she said, staggering when he tried to spin her. "You're making me make an idiot've myself." She'd said most of that in English, so he probably couldn't understand her – but she doubted he'd care even if he did. The downside to being the adopted little sister was that they gave her shite as only older brothers could.

"It is not as though you will remember any of this tomorrow," he laughed. "Just do not vomit on my boots."

"I make no promises," she growled.

* * *

Thranduil moved in a perpetual fog.

The smiths had been hard at work, crafting the hull of what looked much like a car, but Lorna had had little knowledge of the engines that powered one, and thus, neither did he. The smiths and armorers had been tasked with developing something based on what little she _did_ know, but it was slow going.

He needed more memory._ Needed_ it. The craving was like a siren song, growing louder by the day. His own mind was suffering for lack of it, and with it, his body; he rarely ate anymore, and drank far more wine than was usually his (already prodigious) habit.

Clearly he could not trust his Elves to retrieve his original pair of traitors.

He was going to have to get them himself.

* * *

Dun dun duuuuun. Thranduil, nobody is going to want to see you, and Galadriel is going to be rather peeved to arrive at your home and find you gone.

Title means "Party Time" in Irish


	11. Aisghabháil

In which Lorna finally deals with some shit, Legolas wonders if the universe is conspiring against him, and Tauriel is the only Elf in the Woodland Realm with common sense and a spine.

* * *

After Lorna's joke of a dance with Elrohir, the rest of the evening just sort of smeared together in an alcoholic blur. She was vaguely aware of be loaded onto the horse at some point, but she (probably mercifully) couldn't remember the ride back to Bard's.

Someone had got her into pajamas and put her to bed, at least – though it didn't really make much difference, because when she woke, she wanted to die.

She'd had some utterly foul morning-afters in her life, but this put them all to shame. She fancied she could _feel_ her brain pulsing in her skull, squeezed relentlessly by a band of dehydration.

She also desperately needed to pee, but sitting up made her dizzy. She wound up crab-walking across the floor, to the chamber pot she'd never yet used. It definitely got used _now_, though – and since she was still on her period, it would be even more fun to dispose of. _Gross_.

She shoved it under the bed for now, and crawled over to the nightstand. There was a pitcher of water, meant to be poured in the basin so she could wash her face, but she'd not used it last night. Now she sat on the floor, shivering, because of _course_ the fire had gone out in the night, drinking straight from the jug in greedy swallows. Lorna wished like hell she had an aspirin or five, but nope – that was another thing she could add to stuff she missed about Earth.

About half of it went down before she could drink no more, so she crawled back into bed and pulled the covers over her head. With a morning-after _this_ bad, there was nothing to do but sleep it off.

And she tried. She really did, despite various concerned people knocking at the door and getting told to fuck off. When the door finally did open, she didn't bother glaring at the intruder – if she took the blanket off her head, the blinding grey light of the cloudy day might well split her head in half. "G'way," she managed.

"You might have impressed the Dwarves, but you are obviously suffering for it now." It was Gandalf's voice, and he sounded far too amused, the smug bastard.

Lorna eased the covers down just enough to glare at him with one eye, and even _that_ felt like a railroad spike to the brain. "What's your point?" she muttered, half in English.

"My point, my dear foolish girl, is that I have questions for you, and you cannot answer them as you are." He laid his left hand on her blanket-covered head and muttered something, and all the miserable toxins seemed to drain right out through her feet.

"Neat trick," she said, letting her other eye peek out over the edge of the blankets. "Questions?" She had a feeling she already knew what he would ask, but she could hope he was wrong.

Gandalf pulled up the stool she usually sat on to poke at the fire. "Your nightmare last evening," he said. "What was it?"

She supposed she shouldn't be surprised he'd known she'd had one – and she knew there was no point trying to lie about it. "I was climbing a mountain," she said. "There was a dragon at the top, scorching everyone and everything, and eventually it burned me – then I woke up." That was as bald a description as she could give. "Seemed a little too bloody real for my taste."

"Like a memory?" Gandalf asked, packing his pipe.

"Yes," she said warily. She already didn't like where this was going. Some childish part of her wanted to hide under the covers again, as though doing so would be some kind of protection.

"I thought as much. I'd wondered when this would happen – truth be told, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner."

"It's Thranduil's memory, isn't it?" she sighed. Of bloody course it would be. "How would I have that? He dug around in my head, not the other way around."

"A meeting of two minds with mental abilities is often a two-sided connection," he said, lighting the pipe with a twist of his fingers. "Though I suspect that you only became aware of it because of the truly heroic quantity of alcohol you imbibed."

Lorna groaned. Even without the headache, she was far too exhausted to be thinking about this. Her bed was warm and comfortable, the sheets still smelling of the dried lavender Sigrid hung in the kitchen. While the mattress wasn't tremendously comfortable by modern standards, Lorna's standards were very low; only while living with her sister, and then with the Elves, had she actually had a decent bed. "Remind me not to get that drunk again, then," she said, in her usual garble of English and Sindarin. "_Ever_." Seriously, if that truly was a memory, it was fucking horrible – pissed though she was at Thranduil, she had to feel a _little_ sorry for him. That had to be how his face got so mangled.

"A reminder I do not think you need. However, I am certain you have other of Thranduil's memories locked away in your mind somewhere, and eventually they will try to surface. We will need to speak more about them, once you have rested.

"Brilliant," she sighed. "Thank you, Gandalf, for the…head-thing." If there was a word for it in Sindarin or English, she didn't know it.

"You're quite welcome, Lorna. Get some rest."

She shut her eyes, and so didn't see the fire spring to life in the grate – she only heard it, but it made her smile. The book had presented Gandalf as a good person, and it was nice to know Tolkien had got that right. Thanks to the wizard, she was warm and comfortable and had nothing at all to complain about, even with that odd, brief nightmare. It was memory only; in reality, she was in Bard's snug house, well shielded from the bitter cold outside.

When she looked out the window, she saw that it was snowing again. At this rate they'd have to dig tunnels to get around town. They had to be in Middle-Earth's equivalent of Siberia, or close to it; she couldn't imagine how they could get so much snow otherwise. The banks along the sides of the roads had to be a good eight feet tall.

Even lacking modern amenities, Bard's house was still one of the nicest places she'd ever stayed in. The house she'd lived in as a child had had running water and electricity (most of the time), but it had been a total dump. Bard's had neither, but it was well-built and well-maintained; pride had gone into its construction. Her old house was one of dozens that were all nearly identically, the rooms small and cramped, with a tiny back garden and even less in front. Bard and his children might be uncomfortable living in such a grand house, but that didn't stop them taking care of it.

It was with that thought that sleep claimed her again, and, for a little while at least, she did not dream.

* * *

Arandur had actually slept that night, and woke with a slight headache. It wasn't nearly enough to wreck his utter delight.

He'd seen a Dwarf feast, even if it probably wasn't an entirely typical one. The Dwarves had obviously been leery of all his questioning at first, but they must have seen his curiosity was genuine, for eventually they opened up. There were a fair number of things they would not fully explain, insisting that they were private for Dwarves, which he could respect. Eru knew that there was plenty the Elves did not share with outsiders. The fact that he _did_ respect it seemed to startle them, and make them much more friendly.

Their mead could not truly get him drunk, but it did leave him feeling warm and rosy and content. Even if King Thranduil was cured of his madness, Arandur did not think he could live in the Woodland Realm again. There was simply too much to see in this world, and he only grew more aware of that every day.

He would go to Imladris with the others, but then he wanted to explore the west, and later the south. Perhaps he might write a book of his travels; Lord Elrond's library was famous, and even the work of a lowly scholar might find a place there. They only had to make it through winter, and then there was no limit to what they could do.

* * *

The snow was to terrible that Legolas began to despair of reaching Lothlórien in time, let alone return to the Woodland Realm with Lady Galadriel.

He sat now in a cave, beside a guttering fire that he had built more for his horse's sake than his own. He had brought feed with him, but he worried that it would not be enough, and what little living vegetation there was to be found would not sustain the animal.

Meanwhile, all he could do was worry about what his father might be up to. The snow so far north had to be even worse than it was here, so at least he couldn't do anything stupid on a massive scale. The damage he could do within the halls themselves was considerable, however, if his people did not stop him – and Legolas doubted any would dare try. Should his father's madness grow too deep, he might well stoop to kinslaying, and he was such a fearsome warrior that even Tauriel likely wouldn't dare to face him a second time.

Out here, there was nothing Legolas could do about it, but he had no hope of curing his father's malady himself. He needed Lady Galadriel, but the very weather seemed determined to stymie him.

_Stay where you are, Ada. Do not do anything foolish until I return._

* * *

The King had made his intentions known, and no one, not even Tauriel, knew what to do at first.

What he would do was madness. Should he really ride to Dale to retrieve – or kill – his defectors, Bard might not regard it as an act of open war, but Dain would. The King was a mighty warrior, but even he could not fight the entirety of Erebor's army on his own – and if they killed the King, the Elves would have no choice but to march to war. Thranduil could not be allowed to leave.

Negotiation would be fruitless, and confrontation probably fatal. They had to be rather more underhanded than was customary for Elves, but at this point, Tauriel was willing to try anything.

What she intended would likely get her banished again, for good this time, but if it prevented war, she didn't care. She would go to Imladris with the sons of Elrond – surely he would not fault her. Not when the situation was so desperate.

She did not dare tell anyone what she meant to do, for fear it would somehow get back to the King. Lifting some specific herbs from the healing wards was not difficult, and in the privacy of her own room she boiled them. The taste of Dorwinion was so strong that he should not notice the additives, and given the sheer volume of it that he habitually drank, he could be asleep for days.

Much though she would like to imprison him while he was unconscious, she knew she would not get away with it. She would drug him, and then she would sneak out through the exit that only Legolas was meant to know about, and head for Dale. She would not be able to take a horse with her, but once she reached Esgaroth she might be able to hire a boat, to speed her journey. All she could do was warn Bard, and hope it would do any good.

Slipping it solely into the King's wine would not be possible, but she knew which barrel he favored. It would drug any who drank from it, but that could not be avoided. In a way, it might create a little more useful confusion than if the King alone fell into a stupor.

Squaring her shoulders, she carefully poured the concoction into a small glass bottle, and slipped it into the pocket of her tunic. The pack she had put together for her flight, as well as her warmest clothes, sat waiting for her near the exit, and once her task was complete, she would slip away into the night. She could only pray that this would not be the one evening he chose to remain sober.

She glanced around the room that she would probably never see again. Her few sentimental objects had been smuggled out in her pack, but Kili's runestone was in her other pocket. This had been her home for almost six hundred years – but she could make a new home with Lord Elrond, if he allowed it. And if she could truly prevent a war, it would be worth it.

She stepped out into the corridor, tall and proud, and headed for the wine-cellar. With any luck, it would be so busy that no one would notice her – she would just be one more person checking the barrels. That would be the point of no return, and she just wanted to get it over with.

* * *

When Lorna finally crept downstairs, she found the house empty of all save Gandalf, who sat at the kitchen table with two mugs of tea. He looked at her expectantly, and she winced.

"I'm not going to like what you've got to tell me, am I?" she asked, mostly in Sindarin.

"No," he said bluntly, "but it is necessary."

She sat across from him, knowing there was no point trying to weasel her way out of this. Whatever 'this' was. "All right, lay it on me. Give me the bad news," she clarified. At least the tea smelled wonderful; when she took the chipped mug, she cradled it in her hands and inhaled deeply. That was one good thing Dale had that the Elven halls lacked: proper tea.

"You have some of Thranduil's memories locked in your head," Gandalf said. "We must unlock them."

"_Why?_" She was honestly baffled. She could not imagine what possible use that would be, save to give her more nightmares.

"Because if one broke free, it is only a matter of time before more do so as well. It would be better to sort through them now, deliberately, than wait for one to strike you at some inopportune time."

Well, okay, that made sense. Unfortunately. "So what do we do?" she asked, taking a long draw of her tea. It was sweetened perfectly, of course.

"I would not think it healthy to get you so very drunk for a second time in two days," he said, eyes twinkling. "We must induce the same mental state you were in when you had your nightmare. For that, I wish you to smoke this." He extracted a pipe from a pocket of his robes, laying it on the table.

Her eyebrows rose. "You want to get me _stoned_?" She then had to wrack her brain for enough Sindarin to explain the term, but eventually wound up with something approximating 'drunk from smoking'.

Lorna wasn't going to lie: she missed smoking. However, she hadn't smoked weed since before she moved in with her sister five years ago, and she wondered what Gandalf's herb would do to her. When she was young, she'd done a staggering amount of drugs, but she'd got clean when she found out she was pregnant, and she'd like to stay that way. Cigarettes had been her only real vice, and in Middle-Earth she'd had to give even them up.

"This will not harm you, my dear," Gandalf assured her. "I would not give you something I thought would be a detriment to you. Bring your tea and come sit by the fireplace."

She'd trust him, but only because he was Gandalf. She did as asked, curling up one of the armchairs to keep her feet warm. The flames danced cheerfully, the crackling of the wood soothing her rather frayed nerves. The sky outside had grown quite dark, though it was only late afternoon – the leaden clouds threatened even more snow.

The pipe she packed herself, to Gandalf's evident amusement. Though it had been years since she'd done so, she remembered how quite well – though, lacking a match, he lit it for her with a flick of his fingers.

The first hit was the finest she'd ever taken. She'd known that whatever he smoked was not actually weed, since it didn't have the distinctive skunk-stink, but this was ridiculously smooth, and slightly minty, like a menthol cigarette. After so long since smoking an unfiltered pipe, she ought to be coughing like mad, too, but she wasn't.

Gandalf said nothing, letting her smoke and warm herself in peace. Whatever this stuff was, it was very relaxing, without the fuzzy-headedness that came from weed. She watched the pattern of the fire, listening as the wind kicked up and moaned under the eaves.

"Where is everyone else?" she asked. The Elves and Bard were often absent during the day, but Sigrid and Tilda were usually at home.

"Faelon and Menelwen have taken the girls to train in the meeting hall. I believe Elladan and Elrohir have gone with them."

Lorna laughed a little, settling deeper into her chair. Tilda in particular was utterly besotted by both of them, and Lorna couldn't really blame her – they were, like all Elves, very pretty, as well as funny and kind. Exactly what a teenage girl would wish for her first crush. Not that she'd really know; she'd wound up marrying her one and only crush, short a time though she and Liam had had together. For whatever reason, she was mostly immune to the beauty of Elves – which was probably a good thing, or her life in their halls would have been very awkward.

Her sense of calm deepened as she watched the play of the fire. She'd never really known, before she came to Middle-Earth, how nice it was to sit beside one, to feel its heat and watch its flame and hear the crackle of the wood. The lack of technology could be a pain in the arse, but it was also, in a way, a good thing; having everything take so much longer had made her slow down, and notice small things she would not have on Earth.

Even when she'd traveled with Liam, she hadn't been aware of her surroundings in the way she was now: there had always been someplace to be, or gas to scrounge, or food to panhandle for. In the halls, she had mostly been learning (and teaching, if not always on purpose), with the burden of urgency removed, and even in Dale, there was no rush. There couldn't be, when even boiling water took so long.

She wanted to keep thinking of things like that. She sure as hell didn't want to hunt for Thranduil's memories, and not only because the first one she'd found had been so terrible: Lorna was many things, but she was not, and never had been, a voyeur. It was part of why her curse mad her so damn uncomfortable – a person's thoughts were meant to be private. Sometimes, the contents of your head were all you had that you could call your own.

Sure, Thranduil had taken that from her, but that didn't mean she had to do the same thing to him. It wasn't often that Lorna took the moral high ground, because, well, she so seldom had it, but some things were just _wrong._

But Gandalf, being Gandalf, was probably right. She needed to known what was floating around in her head before he ambushed her at the worst possible moment, like when she was trying to find a way to strangle Elladan during a training session.

Something whispered at the back of her mind – a baby's cry, and Christ, didn't that all but break her heart. She'd miscarried her only child before she even knew if it was a boy or girl, and the doctors in hospital had told her that the trauma to her whole abdominal cavity meant she'd likely never have another. Not that it really mattered with Liam dead, but still. Not having the opportunity and not having the _option_ were two very different things.

She didn't want this memory, but the cry grew louder, and in her mind's eye she was suddenly holding a baby – a very small one at that, not much more than a newborn, with porcelain skin and pointed ears and a head full of pale golden fuzz.

_Legolas_, she thought, unless he had other siblings running around that she didn't know about.

Such a tiny little hand wrapped around her right index finger, clutching with a level of blind trust that was painful, and something in Lorna broke. Gandalf was right, she thought grimly; she would not want to do this in front of any more witnesses than she had to.

A sob tore free of her chest, and then, _finally_, she felt the hot sting of tears on her cheeks. The burn of them in her eyes was unfamiliar, but it was welcome – maybe now, after all this time, she could purge some of the poison she'd subsumed for so long.

"That son've a bitch," she said, her tear making it difficult to form words. Her chest hurt, with a great, dragging pain that had nothing to do with her hitching breath. "He's got his kid and his bloody kingdom – what need did he have, to take anything from me? I hadn't got much even before I came to this damn world, and he went and took what little there was."

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, words failing her. She wept for Liam and her child, for Thranduil and his high-handed idiocy. The love she'd felt within the memory was wholly at odds with what she'd personally seen of him, and she hated him for that – his casual violation of her mind would have stung a lot less if he'd just been some indifferent arsehole. That he was actually capable of loving someone made his disdain and disregard something she couldn't just dismiss. He was an arsehole with actual emotions, though you'd never know it by looking at him.

Normally Lorna disliked being touched, but when Gandalf hugged her, she was grateful. Her Da never would have dreamt of it, but Gandalf was better than any da. He let her cry it out until she was a hiccupping, snotty mess – that, apparently, was the downside of tears – and handed her a handkerchief.

"Better?" he asked, as she wiped her stinging eyes and blew her nose.

Lorna nodded, and strangely enough, it was true. She felt lighter, emotionally and physically, as though she really had lanced some festering wound and drained away gallons of poison. "All right," she said, and the hoarseness of her voice surprised her, "what do I do now?"

"Continue, if you can. When you have finished, I will try to teach you to defend against future attacks. You will never be able to harm Thranduil, but you might keep him from harming _you_."

Drawing a deep breath, she nodded again. She could do this now, since everything had been purged. And then…well. If Thranduil wouldn't come to her, she'd go to him.

One way or another, this would be over soon.

* * *

Wouldn't it be hilarious if the two of them passed each other and had no idea. Lorna had to deal with all her crap sooner or later, so now she's got it out of the way.

Title means "Recovery" in Irish.


	12. Turraing

In which the consequences of Tauriel's actions make themselves known (and she finds a surprise on her way to Esgaroth), Lorna is doing far better, and Thranduil realizes he might not be as alone in his own head as he thought.

* * *

Tauriel had never heard of an Elf freezing to death, but she was beginning to wonder if it was possible after all.

She'd kept moving, at least, because she had to get as much of a head start as she could on any potential pursuers. Sooner or later someone would realize she was missing, and then the hunt would be on.

At least they would not be able to follow on horseback. The snow was so deep and powdery that even she, who could walk atop it, often floundered. When she finally reached the river, she found it mostly frozen, so she used it as a road.

It was eerily silent, even to her keen ears. She was still too far from the lake for there to be any breeze; the air was still as death, and so frigid that it stung her face. The sky was also unnervingly dark, the clouds heavy with a promise of snow later. Deep beneath the ice, water still babbled, something she felt rather than heard.

How long would it take Legolas to reach Lothlórien? Without knowing what the snow was like down south, she could not guess. Once Thranduil woke, there would be nothing stopping him but the weather; all she could do was pray for the storm of the century. Though preferably _after_ she reached Dale.

On and on she went, trying not to think. She had no idea what manner of welcome she would receive in Dale; while she doubted Bard would turn her away, she also doubted he would be pleased to see her. Especially with the tidings she brought.

If only Thranduil were not such an impatient fool, none of this could be happening. She was quite sure he had thought that what was taboo for an Elf was not for an Edain. In some respects he had come a long way from the icy, distant figure he had been for so much of her life, but five years was not nearly long enough for an Elf to so radically alter their thinking. Thranduil had spent centuries thinking other races were lesser than the Eldar, and now she feared that a great many would pay the price.

* * *

It had been weeks since Thranduil truly slept, and he did not welcome drowsiness now. Not when there was still so very much to do. The call of sleep was relentless, however, dragging him down into its embrace, and for a long while, he knew no more.

* * *

Galion was in a panic.

All around him, Elves were dropping like flies, caught in a deep sleep form which they could not be woken. Well over a hundred had succumbed, and dozens more were missing, no doubt slumbering in whatever isolated spot they had been in when this odd malady struck.

Among those were many of the Guard, including Captain Tauriel. Galion had known for centuries that most on the Council were useless, so he had relied on Tauriel's aid during this crisis, but who knew where she slept now.

The healers had not yet divined the cause, but they were working on it. Whatever it was, it did not seem to actually _harm_ the afflicted; they just…slept, and could not be roused.

The only mercy was that it had brought down the King, and thus temporarily put on hold his mad schemes. If it would not be treason, Galion would lock him in the dungeon until he came to his senses – _if_ he came to his senses. He only seemed to grow worse with each passing day. Legolas had gone to fetch the Lady Galadriel, but if she couldn't cure the King, Galion feared that no one could.

* * *

Lorna's equilibrium restored itself remarkably quickly, mostly because it had to. She managed to sort through what she had of Thranduil's memories with grim determination, but now that she had drained her mental poison, she found she could occasionally laugh at him. He was just so very full of himself, and while in many ways he had a right to be, it was still sometimes hilarious.

The best – the absolute _best_ – was his perspective on the shaming exercise that had backfired so spectacularly. He'd looked uncomfortable, but apparently he'd been absolutely mortified, especially once the charades started. Seeing herself through his eyes was a little weird, but she took no small amount of satisfaction in the knowledge that he thought she was a little creepy. If the King of the Elves though you were creepy, you were probably doing it right.

By the time Faelon and Menelwen returned with Bard's daughters, she was laughing. Still seated by the fire, which Gandalf had kept bright and high, she'd graduated from tea to ale, and felt quite recovered from her earlier meltdown.

"You look…different," Faelon hazarded, unbuckling his sword and leaning it against the wall. He must have shaken the snow from his cloak before entering, so it wouldn't melt all over the floor.

"I've been busy," she said, raising her mug in a vague toast. "From the look of it, you have, too."

Sigrid laughed, her eyes shining. "Menelwen taught me how to throw someone over my shoulder," she said. "And Elrohir showed me how to break a person's neck with my feet."

She sounded so girlishly pleased that Lorna burst out laughing – until her brain caught up with her. She'd understood Sigrid perfectly, and she sure as hell shouldn't have been able to.

A look at Gandalf found the old wizard smiling at her, and she narrowed her eyes. Sneaky bastard. "You knew this would be a side-effect, didn't you?" she asked in Sindarin, not having to fumble for words at all.

"I knew it was possible. Of course, it means Thranduil will also know all the languages you speak."

Lorna snorted, finishing her ale and setting the mug beside her chair. "Fat lot've good that will do him. There's nobody else in this world fluent in any of them."

* * *

Tauriel was halfway to Esgaroth when she heard the unmistakable sound of someone – or something – floundering in the snow to her left. The amount of cursing – and it had to be cursing, though she did not understand the tongue – indicated it was a sapient being rather than animal, and likely female.

She left her path to investigate, wondering who would be mad enough to be out in this cold so far from shelter. "Are you all right?" she called in Westron – for no Elf would find moving in snow so difficult.

There was no answer save more swearing. When Tauriel found the woman, she was clinging to the branches of an oak, trying to keep her feet out of the snow.

"Why are you out here?" Tauriel asked, but received only a blank stare in return. She tried the question again in Sindarin, and got a similar lack of response.

This stranger was gorgeous for one of the Edain – she almost could have passed for an Elf, golden-haired and blue-eyed. Her rather murderous expression was not Elvish in the least, however, and it vied with a sort of confusion Tauriel recognized. Her clothes – a plain grey tunic with short sleeves, and trousers of the same material – were strange, and could not possibly have kept her alive in this cold for long. On a whim, Tauriel tried English. "Do you need help?"

"I would like to know where I am," the woman growled. Her accent was entirely unlike Lorna's, but it was definitely English she spoke.

Sweet Eru. There was another one.

* * *

Legolas struggled south, but the snow was slow in lessening. Several times he feared for the life of his horse, waiting out the worst of the storms in whatever shelter he could find. Within the trees, the wind was not so unbearable, but it was very difficult going for the poor beast.

It was snowing hard now, the whirling dance of flakes bewildering even his Elf eyes. He had to keep moving, however slowly, because giving up was not an option. However unfortunately tempting it was.

* * *

Lorna slept deeply that night, and if she dreamed, she didn't remember it.

Last night she had (finally) banked the fire properly, so it wasn't stone-cold come morning. She poked it back to life, took an uncomfortably frigid sponge-bath, and pulled her clothes on. She felt better now than she had in weeks, in spite of the ache in her shoulder. Really, she was too old to be doing that shit anymore, and someday she'd have to acknowledge it.

It was so early that the sky was still mostly dark, though the snow cast its own weird form of light, like a moonscape. This side of the house never got shoveled, and unbelievably, the snow was almost as high as her second-story window. She was tempted to dive off the roof into it, shoulder or no shoulder. The twins would probably be game, at least.

She crept downstairs as quietly as she could, not wanting to wake anyone who might still be asleep. The kitchen was dark and cold, the shuttering having been closed overnight to conserve heat. Lorna shivered as she cracked one open, givin her enough light to poke up the fire without accidentally igniting her sleeve. By now she had enough experience to know how much kindling she could add without wasting wood, and when it was crackling away, she went to stoke the stove. Whoever woke first was the one in charge of heating the water for oatmeal and tea, so she filled the big kettle and set it to boil.

It was strange, how some things stayed the same no matter what world you were in. Every morning of her life she'd heated water for tea, as long as she'd actually had both available. Here the process took a little longer, but it produced the same result – and Dale had the best tea she'd ever tasted. The Elves made sure to keep Bard well walked with it, and other food items – oatmeal, bacon, bread, dried fruit. Vegetables were a scarcer commodity, since it was apparently harder to preserve them before Nature created its own freezer. Most of what was available had been pickled, and she and the Elves were more than happy to let Bard and the girls have that to themselves.

Lorna paused. While it was true she was an abysmal cook, it was pretty hard to muck up bacon. Maybe she'd try to make breakfast for once.

All the pots and pans hung well overhead, suspended by a row of hooks in the ceiling. She had to drag a stood over to aid her, and even then she could barely reach, almost tipping over backward under the weight of the cast-iron skillet.

"You are too small for that," Elladan said, scaring half the life out of her. Even now, she wasn't used to the fact that Elves were quieter than cats.

"Wear a bell," she said, setting the pan on the stove. "Did you just wake up, or did you not go to sleep?" Elven sleeping habits were also not something she'd grown accustomed to, mostly because they seemed so unnatural to her.

"I did not sleep," he said. "I went walking outside the city. The people of Dale have been good to us, but at times there are simply too many of them." Before Lorna had to ask, he took the hunk of bacon off the hook, and began slicing it while she hunted for fat to grease the pan. Bard had dozens of spices and weird sauces in his cupboard, and none of them were labeled.

"I hear you there. I'd love to leave the house for a bit, but I don't dare, what with all those minds waiting – and unlike you bloody Elves, I can't just walk across snow that's deeper than I am tall. Though I thought've high-diving off the roof into it later."

He gave her the look her real older brother had always given her, right before he dared her to do something epically stupid. "I will if you will," he said.

Lorna grinned, and not just because she'd found the lard. "I wonder how many've the others we can talk into it?"

"My brother, definitely. And possibly Arandur – he always seems keen to try new things."

The fat sizzled when it hit the pan, but didn't scorch, so that was probably a good sign. "That kid was wasted as a scholar," she said, reaching for the bacon, "and yes, I know he's like four hundred years older than me, but he looks seventeen at most. At least he's benefited from running away from Mirkwood."

"And you have not?" Elladan asked, sounding genuinely curious. "I do not know how it happened, but your Sindarin is much improved. How long do you think you would have remained content to stay in the Woodland Realm?"

She shrugged before laying the first slice of bacon in the pan. "Dunno. Even if I'd eventually mastered Sindarin the slow way, I wouldn't have dared to travel on my own, and I don't think any've the Elves would have left with me for good if circumstances hadn't driven them to it." In went another piece, and the scent of it was already beginning to fill the room. "In another twenty years, I might not want to travel. I know Arandur sometimes forgets how short human – Edain – lives are compared to yours. My gran's still alive and kicking at ninety-seven, but even that's too short a time to you lot."

Elladan sighed. The kettle began to sing, so he moved around her to get it off the stove. "The long lives of the Eldar are as much a curse as they are a blessing," he said. "There are many who believe that we Elves hold ourselves apart because we believe we are better than everyone else. While that might be true for some, for many it is because friendships with other races only bring us pain in the end."

Lorna winced. Of course humans knew there were people they were going to outlive, sometimes by a very large margin if accident or disease wasn't involved, but it wasn't the same thing. They didn't have to live _forever_ without their friends and loved ones; everybody died sooner or later, and went wherever the souls or consciousnesses or whatever of the dead went. She'd never personally speculated on it much, figuring she'd find out when she got there.

"Life in this world is better than mine in a lot've ways, but in some, it's worse. Lifespan's different in different parts of the world, but we all k now not many've us will live past a hundred."

"I still cannot imagine a world without Elves or Dwarves," he said, fishing the box of oatmeal out of the cupboard overhead.

"It's definitely…different. We've a lot've things that make life easier, but they also make it harder to…slow down, sort've thing. I'm pretty sure Thranduil saw some've them, and I wonder if that isn't half why he's off his nut now. It might well be information overload for him." She started fishing the bacon out of the pan with a fork, of course burning her hand on the hot grease.

Elladan arched an eyebrow. "Is it _that_ different?"

She gave him a crooked smile, laying more bacon in the pan, and (of course) burning herself again. "If I'd had my old van and a proper road, I probably could've driven here from Mirkwood in about three hours. We don't need fire to heat our houses, and we always have hot and cold water available. If I'd had a cell phone, I could've talked to my sister six thousand miles away."

He stared at her, and Lorna almost laughed. The Elves had it so much better than the humans here, and boggling him was rather nice. "Thranduil knows this?"

"If you want to believe Beleg and Sadronniel, he does. More than that, he's seen it all in my memories. It'd be enough to drive anyone 'round the twist. Even witnessing my driving'd probably freak him out, but I'm betting it's the space station and the moon landing that really threw him."

"Moon landing?" Elladan asked, pouring some of the hot water into a big ceramic bowl.

"Oh, sure. A few people've walked on our moon, and there's some that live in space."

He looked so pole-axed that now she _did_ laugh. She couldn't help it. The Elves, even the nicest of them, really did seem to have a bit of a superiority complex about some things. Humans here might not have it so great, but it was rather nice to remind the Elves that they were capable of great things, too.

His ruminations were interrupted by Sigrid, who stumbled her sleepy way down the stairs, clearly drawn by the scent of bacon. Lorna stifled a laugh, and dished her up.

* * *

Tauriel was beginning to wonder if her companion was slightly mad.

Her name, Tauriel eventually learned, was Katje, and her grasp of English was only a little better than Tauriel's own. Even with her borrowed Elven cloak, she couldn't possibly have walked in the snow; her strange slippers were not fit to be worn outside in any weather.

No, what made Tauriel question her sanity was that she did not question (or seem at all bothered by) the fact that she had just been unceremoniously dumped in a strange world, and was now clinging the back of a person whose race, if Lorna was to be believed, did not exist in her world. It took a good six hours of walking to extract why: the place Katje had come from was so terrible that she did not care where she was, or how she had got here, or why.

"There was doctor," she said, her chin rested quite casually on top of Tauriel's head. "He did…horrible things. Terrible things in our minds."

It took Tauriel a moment to work that out, and when she had, she shuddered. Thank Eru she'd found this woman before someone else, someone who would have brought her to Thranduil. The Valar only knew what he might have done to her. "There is another here, from your world," she said, sidestepping a hole in the ice. "One of those she called the cursed. She has been here almost five months." A good half of that was in Sindarin, and she hoped Katje would understand it.

"I wonder how many are here, and we do not know it. Something bring us on purpose, or why would we be here?"

Tauriel had no idea, but the idea of multiple Edain with this odd magic was not a pleasant one. Lorna was a good person, and this Katje appeared to be one as well, but what if someone like that doctor she described turned up? The amount of damage such a one could do to the Edain and Dwarf populations was horrifying to contemplate. Most Eldar were not like Thranduil, and would not risk infections by probing any of the curseds' minds, but if enough of the other races fell victim to another like Lorna, a war between Elves, Dwarves, and Men might be the least of Middle-Earth's problems.

She couldn't know if Katje was right, but of one thing she was certain: Bard was going to kill them.

* * *

_Thranduil slept, and he dreamed._

_He had been over Lorna's memories so often that they might as well have been his own. This dream was not one of them, but it was of her world. He floated above the clouds, weightless and insubstantial, watching one of the great bustling cities below. It was night, so the city was aglow with the electric lights he had yet to reproduce. Something was down there, something he was hunting, though he did not know who, or what, or why._

_"You'll die if you stay here, you know." Quite suddenly, Lorna was beside him, watching him with her unsettling eyes. "There's a reason there aren't any Elves in my world. You can't survive trapped in concrete and glass. The fumes of our cars and our factories will choke you to death, if the crowds of humans don't do you in first. You belong in your forest, with your horses and swords, not tanks and guns. Don't poison your world with mine."_

_"I can make them work, given time," he said. "And the Eldar have all the time in the world."_

_"_Why?_" she asked. "You'd only turn your world into mine, and you don't want that. You're dooming yourself and your people, just to make things easier."_

_"And what would you know of it?" he asked, his ire rising._

_"More than you, apparently," she snorted. "You think I didn't sometimes wish I could use my curse to make my life easier? What you did was _wrong,_ and you know it, but what you're still doing is wrong, too. Wake up, Thranduil, and bloody fix yourself. You won't like it if I have to do it for you."_

_"You could not," he said, his scorn almost palpable._

_She arched an eyebrow at him. "Couldn't I? Tell me, Thranduil, who infected who? You're sick, even you know that, and you didn't do it to yourself. I can make it worse. I can make it so much worse, if you drive me to it. Even now you're slowly killing yourself. Not even Elves can live on wine and no sleep forever. You might as well give up on all your daft projects – you'll never know how to make them work._

_"And why not?" he demanded._

_Her answer actually chilled him. "Because I won't let you."_

* * *

Yup, there's another one. Katje is also from my books, and can shed a great deal of light on the doctor who first mind-raped Lorna (and a whole lot of other people). And yes, Lorna has a ghost-Thranduil in her head as well, but her far weaker power has actually been a _good_ thing: Thranduil's ghost-Lorna has fed on the strength of his abilities, but her ghost-Thranduil is, for now, starving.

Title means "Shock" in Irish.


	13. Airdeallach Suas

In which Tauriel wonders just how many cursed are going to get flung into Middle-Earth, and _why_, Legolas finds help, and Thranduil continues to cause problems for everybody.

* * *

Lorna's cabin fever was growing unendurable. Even diving into the snow hadn't alleviated it for long. Unfortunately, she'd let Sigrid and Tilda drag her out for an alternative activity, and she was heartily regretting it now.

She'd blamed Gandalf for her sudden comprehension of Westron, which they accepted easily, because, well, _wizard._ Now that she could understand them, they immediately began castigating her for her clothes, and insisted on dragging her to a seamstress. The woman lived on the edge of town, so she couldn't even plead her curse as an excuse, and the twins had been no help at all.

The room she stood in now was weirdly daunting, with its army of headless dressmaker's dummies and some worryingly sharp implements she couldn't recognize. Lorna had never been able to afford much in the way of clothes, and hadn't really been interested in them – if they were warm and didn't drag on the ground too much when she walked, they were fine by her. She'd mostly favored jeans, boots, and flannel shirts, adding or shedding layers as required.

Sigrid and Tilda clearly wanted to have a living doll, but she wasn't making it easy on them. Trousers were non-negotiable – she wasn't used to dresses, and didn't want to become comfortable with them. Her Elven tunic, she pointed out, did look a bit like a dress, which was evidently good enough for both girls and seamstress. They matched the pattern in a fine, dark red wool, as well as black, at Tilda's insistence.

Lorna stood now on a stool in nothing but her undershirt and trousers, trying to hold still while the seamstress measured her. The room was very warm, with three of the walls lined floor to ceiling with bolts of fabric – everything from wool and cotton to brocade and silk. It smelled of sweet, smoky tea and some kind of bittersweet herb she couldn't identify, that tickled in her sinuses and constantly threatened to make her sneeze. Her dislike of being touched made this far more of a chore than any of the others would realize, but the girls were enjoying themselves, and it killed time.

"Why do you insist on trousers, Lorna?" Sigrid asked, holding up a piece of green satin – bloody _satin_.

"Where I come from, everyone wears them. They're warm, and it's a lot easier to kick someone in trousers than a dress." She winced at the seamstress pinned a long piece of muslin to her shoulder, jabbing her with a pin in the process.

"Your land sounds very odd," Sigrid said, now holding up a brown wool that was much more to Lorna's liking.

"You have no idea. Anyway, I'd much rather have functional things than fancy ones. It's not as though I've got any call to need pretty and impractical." The mental image of herself shoveling snow in the gowns some of the Elven ladies wore rose in her mind, and she had to suppress a laugh.

"You are too small," the seamstress said, jabbing her with another pin. She was a stout, matronly lady with an impressively large bun of iron-grey hair, who reminded Lorna a little too much of one of her teachers at primary school. "How am I to make you clothes for a grown woman when you are the size of a child of ten?"

"A riddle for the ages," Lorna said solemnly. She wouldn't admit that she'd never been able to buy trousers in the adult women's section of any store, and even yet she wore a training bra. In a way, she was glad of the grey – sorry, _silver_ ¬– in her hair, because at least it meant no one actually mistook her for a twelve-year-old.

Tilda giggled, and Lorna fought the urge to kick the seamstress – who, she was certain, was now stabbing her on purpose.

"I will find some way of making you look decent," the woman said, and it sounded worryingly like a threat.

* * *

Tauriel honestly wondered how Katje didn't freeze before they reached Esgaroth – and it would seem Katje wondered the same thing, if her expression was any indication.

Esgaroth, even in its new incarnation, was not Tauriel's favorite place. Its primary aromas were fish and tar, which were not unduly unpleasant on their own, but the faint stink of sewage did not help.

The inn was cozy enough, however, especially on a night like this. She traded some coins with the innkeeper to secure them a room and some food, and once Katje was settled, she set out to find the Edain woman some proper clothing.

That wasn't necessarily going to be easy. Lorna was unusually short for an Edain of Middle-Earth, but Katje was unusually tall – very nearly six feet, if Tauriel was any judge. It meant she would probably need men's clothing, but from all Lorna had said, most women in her world wore trousers anyway.

It was a miserable night on the lake, with the wind driving the snow almost horizontal. Chunks of ice slammed against the pilings with each shift of the choppy water, and the docks were treacherous with it. When she rapped on the tailor's door, he looked at her a though she were mad, until he saw she was an Elf. Most Edain thought the Eldar far more invulnerable than they actually were, and the Eldar were content to let them keep thinking it.

It was blessedly warm in here, and the big lamp on the table near the fire cast the room in a cheery glow. Tauriel was grateful to get off her feet when he bade her to sit in the fat armchair. He was a wiry little man, perhaps fifty years old, dark of skin and black of hair, with long, clever fingers well suited to his work.

"It's many Elves we've seen, in the last fortnight," he said, pouring her some tea. "Unusual for this time of year."

"These have been unusual circumstances. I do not know how many more will follow," she sighed, taking the mug from him and warming her hands with it before drinking. "Though if the weather holds as it is, I maybe the last you will see for some time. I am afraid I have an odd request for you," she added. "I am traveling with a woman in need of proper clothes for such cold, but she is taller than you, and I do not think anything appropriate could be tailored to her in such a short time as we have to spend here. Have you any man's clothing that might be altered?"

He did not answer right away, and she suspected he was turning over his list of wares in his mind. "Perhaps you will need to bring the lady to me tomorrow, so that I might measure her."

"I will," Tauriel said, taking a large swallow of her tea. Though the water had come from the contaminated lake, it had been boiled, which made a beverage made from it somewhat less disgusting. "She will need boots and a cloak as well."

"Is it Dale you make for?" he asked, not even bothering to hide the depth of his curiosity.

"For now. I was going to inquire about hiring a boat, but with the ice as it is, I would think it pointless."

"And you would be right. Nobody here's mad enough to go on the water now. Not unless they _wanted_ to capsize."

Tauriel sighed. "In that case, I will also need some snowshoes."

* * *

That night, the temperature dipped so low that Lorna and Tilda went to share Sigrid's room, so that they'd only have to keep one roaring fire going, not three.

It was obvious by the décor that Sigrid was as unused to luxury in her room as the entire family was in the rest of the whole house. Her bedding was incongruously rich compared to the simple wall hangings – it was actual brocade, deep red and embroidered with what Lorna suspected was actual gold thread, and the lot of it – duvet, pillowcases, fat down pillows – had likely been a gift from someone. Her washbasin, on the other hand, was old, chipped porcelain, white with a garden scene etched in blue. That, Tilda told her, had belonged to their mother, as well as the sturdy, someone banged-up end table it sat upon.

The braided rug on the floor was pretty and colorful, but it had definitely been bought – or made – for functionality rather than ornamentation. There was the mirror on the wall, and a few charcoal sketches of varying quality, and a heavy tapestry curtain that went over the shutters, for insulation.

Her bed was only big enough for two, so the Elves helped her manhandle her mattress in so she could sleep on the floor. None of them were intending to sleep that night; they would all crowd around the fire downstairs, to work on the various projects they'd concocted for themselves. Given how bored they were, she was surprised they wouldn't sleep, just to pass some time.

She herself was exhausted, and so cold that she kept her trousers on when she crawled under her covers. "How do you lot not go mad here over the winter?"

Sigrid was attempting to punch her pillow into shape. "Let us just say that there is always a large crop of babies come spring," she said blandly.

Lorna burst out laughing. "Well, that's one way to pass the time."

"That's not _all_ we do," Tilda said, turning pink. "Much of our sewing is done in winter, and last year Sigrid made that rug. Old Olga the seamstress was probably glad of our business today, for all we made it so hard on her. I do wish you'd let us get you a proper dress. You could be so pretty, if you tried."

"_Tilda_," Sigrid hissed, horrified. She blew out the lamp, possibly hoping the darkness could hide them both. Unfortunately for her, the fire was still very bright.

Lorna laughed again, not offended in the least. "Don't worry about it. She's young. Tilda, allanah, if I cared to try, I'd already be doing it. It's a load've work I don't want to muck about with."

"What does 'allanah' mean?" Sigrid asked, very obviously trying to cover her sister's blunder.

"It's Irish for 'little dear one'." She shivered again, wondering if she would ever get warm. Normally cold didn't bother Lorna too much, but this was bloody ridiculous. It was a wonder bits hadn't started to drop off her.

"Your tongue sounds beautiful," Tilda said. "Could you teach us?"

"I could try. It's not an easy language to learn. Even Arandur struggles with it."

"He's pretty," Tilda sighed dreamily. "But not as pretty as the twins."

Lorna didn't laugh this time, because she didn't want to sound unkind to the girl. "All Elves are pretty. I've just been around them so long that I've got used to it. Some've them can be right arseholes, though." She then had to find a way to explain 'arsehole', and when she'd succeeded, she could tell both girls had gone crimson even in the light of the fire.

"We've seen their King a few times," Sigrid said. "He's beautiful, too, but he's terrifying."

"And the biggest arsehole of the lot," Lorna muttered.

"Is he the reason you left?" Tilda asked.

There wasn't really any point in lying, especially since Bard already knew. "Yes," she said quietly. "And we might get company, once this bloody weather clears up." The Wood-Elves might not be able to impeach their King, but they could vote with their feet, so to speak. She hoped Lord Elrond would be prepared to potentially accept a herd of refugees. How many Elves lived in Middle-Earth? Hell, how many _humans_ were there? Yet again, she wished she'd read _Lord of the Rings_. Other than here, Mirkwood, Rivendell, and the Shire, she had no idea what countries and species lived in this world. Oh, goblins too, if she was remembering correctly, in the mountains. Wherever the mountains were.

Elrond was supposed to be really wise. Maybe she'd ask him, whenever the hell they made it to Rivendell. Provided he actually let any of them in.

* * *

Legolas had stopped for the night, sheltered in a slight hollow filled with birch trees, when he first heard it: a sound that was not the relentless wind or swish of snow on snow. The footsteps of a horse – no, two of them, plodding toward him.

He scrambled to his feet. Orcs would either be on foot or riding wargs, and in any event there would be more of them. No Edain lived near enough to be venturing out in this weather – it could only be Elves.

The dark and the driving snow meant he could not see the figures until they were all but on top of him. They _were_ Elves, hooded and cloaked in the garb of Lothlórien, and when the one on the left spoke, Legolas could have wept with relief.

"Legolas Greenleaf," Lady Galadriel said, "you have a pretty problem for me."

"Can you help?" he asked.

"Until I see your father, I cannot know."

They followed him to his meager shelter, where he discovered that the other Elf was Amaniel, Galadriel's handmaiden. Lord Celeborn must have stayed behind, to care for their realm. Their horses joined his, and perhaps their combined warmth would keep them from freezing to death on this bitter night.

Not even a near-blizzard could ruffle Lady Galadriel. She was calm as ever when she sat beside his fire, but her eyes were grave. "I saw your father in my Mirror," she said, "and you, coming to find me. I cannot say I precisely understand what had happened to his mind, but I will heal it, if I can." She paused. "Once he might have face judgment for what he has done, but there has been no High King of the Elves for well over an age. None hold dominion over your father, but should any of your people wish to leave the Woodland Realm after this, Lothlórien would welcome them. I am sure Lord Elrond would say the same."

Legolas winced, but she had a point. Come spring, there might well be at least a small exodus of Elves, leaving the halls and forest and never returning. "I cannot know how many more he has sent after them," he said. "Lorna and Arandur, I mean. If the weather is this bad up north, he might well not have been able to send any, but in his desperation, I cannot know. Bard will not see repeated excursions to Dale as war, but Dain might, if there are too many."

"Do not think Dain so hasty," Galadriel said. "I do not think he would go to war unless he was directly attacked. He would have too much to lose."

Legolas could only hope she was right. It was true that his rule was still new, and that his land and his people would suffer for it, but he was still hotheaded, even for a Dwarf.

"I will do all I can for your father, Legolas," she said gently. "Of that, you have my word."

* * *

When Tauriel returned to her room at the inn, she found Katje had already fallen asleep, curled under the quilts like a golden-haired lump.

She slept on her side, her head rested on her left arm, and in the light of the fire Tauriel could see a dark bruise on her wrist, as well as the faded red mark of a harsh restraint. She wondered if the woman had any other injuries that would actually require treatment before they moved on.

Katje had not actually admitted to being one of the cursed, but when Tauriel said that Lorna was, she'd stiffened. Lorna had said she was running from the Men in Grey immediately before she found herself in the forest; it would appear that Katje had not been so successful in evading them. How many more were held in the place she'd come from? Lorna had once mentioned that her world had a staggering population of eight _billion_; there might well be a prison the size of Minas Tirith for the cursed.

Katje twitched. She was frowning in her sleep, her brows drawn together. Getting her to talk about it would be difficult, but Tauriel needed to know at least a little, so that she would have a better idea what to expect if more of the cursed turned up – and maybe, just maybe, they could work out how, and _why_.

She was so tired that she was going to have to sleep tonight as well, and hope nothing horrible found them before dawn.

* * *

The healers, to Galion's relief, had discovered the source of the malady that still afflicted so many: they had not been poisoned or bespelled. Someone had simply drugged them, though he had no yet worked out how.

Many were still missing, including Captain Tauriel. With some he would have suspected defection, but the gate guards, who had escaped being drugged, swore that none had tried to leave. They were still here somewhere, and would have to wake on their own.

The worrying thing was that the King had woken – sort of. He moved about his quarters like one in a dream, not seeming to notice Galion when he came to stoke the fire, nor touching the food and waver let on his table in the morning and at noon. He did not touch any of his papers, either; his writing and drawings remained undisturbed. He brushed his hair, at least, which was the only real indication that he was aware of his surroundings at all.

Galion didn't know what to make of it, but if the King was so deeply lost in thought, it at least meant he was not heading out into the storm to start a war. However, he had eaten so little in the last weeks that if he continued ignoring his meals, he was going to do himself real harm.

The butler sighed. There was nothing to be done for it right now – he would go see if the guards had yet discovered how everyone had been so seriously incapacitated.

The halls were unnaturally quiet as he traversed his way to the guard room – even those who were awake were too disturbed to do much moving about. Galion could not blame them; had he not had so many duties himself, he too would be in his rooms. He wondered if the King's foolish actions had cursed them all.

Even in the guard room it was unusually quiet, and unusually empty. It was somewhat disconcerting to see the long benches all but unoccupied; the table, normally crowded with pates of food and weapons in need of sharpening, were nearly bare. The few guards on duty looked very weary.

"It was the wine," Celebdor said. He was lying on a bench, eyes closed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I did not realize just how many of us snuck from the King's cask. Someone mixed up a sleeping cordial, much like that which the healers use, and poured it into the barrel. There is only one motive I can speculate."

"To keep the King here," Galion said, and it was not a question.

"Yes. I cannot think that whoever did it had any more idea just how widespread the wine theft was than I did, or perhaps they would have chosen a smaller method of delivery."

Galion sighed, and uncharacteristically slumped when he sat beside Celebdor's feet. "Well, whoever did it is still here," he said. "The gate-guards swear no one has tried to leave. And it would appear their mission has failed, for the King is now awake. More or less." So many still slumbered, and Galion could only wish the King was among them. He might be in some manner of daze for now, but that could not be trusted to last.

There was only one thing to be done. It was treason, and it would mean Galion would be forever banished, but even if the King would not understand, Prince Legolas surely would. The guard might know that wine had been the vector, but if Thranduil didn't, it could be possible to induce him to drink more. Though he had ignored both breakfast and lunch, never had Galion known his King to ignore a bottle of wine, no matter what state he was in.

Right. Well, there was nothing for it. With a nod to the guards, he went to the wine cellar, which was as unsettlingly empty as every other public place in these damned halls. At least it meant there was no one would observe him take a silver pitcher from the cupboard, and fill it with the dregs from the tainted wine barrel. The fruity smell of the wine was so overpowering that he didn't wonder why none had detected its additive until it was too late.

He marched back to the King's quarters with grim purpose, the pitcher quite steady in his hands. He would drug his King again, and _keep_ drugging him if necessary. Prince Legolas could pass judgment on him later.

So did Galion keep telling himself, but when he reached the King's chambers, his noble determination dissolved into panic.

Thranduil was gone.

* * *

The world was strangely dim, and Thranduil was uncertain he could fully trust the evidence of his own eyes, but he knew what he must do.

Not until he spoke to the echo of Lorna in his mind had he suspected she might have altered him deliberately. If that were indeed the case, he had now to find her for more reasons than one: surely if she infected him, she could cure him.

For her sake, she had better be able to.

He dressed in his warmest clothes, but did not bother with his armor – she could do him no harm, and none of the Elves with her would dare try. His sword he took, for he was not fool enough to venture outside his halls without it.

Foggy though his vision was, he noticed that he passed not a single person on his way to the stables. Something was amiss, but he couldn't see to it now.

No horse would be able to travel far through the amount of snow he was sure awaited him, but his elk was far larger than any horse. He stroked the creature's head before packing several bags' worth of feed. The elk's heavy coat would keep him alive, no matter how frigid the temperatures.

The groom was obviously hesitant about letting him out of the stable, but Thranduil was King, and would brook no disobedience. Out he went, into air so cold it nearly froze the breath in his chest. Toward the lake the sky was clouded, but over the forest it was clear, massed with stars like spilled diamonds, and the light of the waxing moon was more than enough to guide both him and the elk.

He would have his knowledge, and his cure. And Eru help any who stood in his way.

* * *

Well, they're all about to be screwed. Including Thranduil. At least Legolas has Galadriel on the way, to pick up the pieces of whatever it is he might happen to break.

Title means "Waking up" in Irish.


	14. Mar A Bhí Tú Ag Fáil Bháis

In which Thranduil's echo discovers that pissing Lorna off is a bad, _bad_ idea (yet gets indirect revenge), Katje's tidings of her own world make Tauriel very, very uneasy, and Lorna gets some nasty news.

* * *

Lorna's sleep was deep, but troubled. Even in her dreams she had a nagging feeling that something was trying to get her attention, but she couldn't focus enough to find it.

With the shutters closed and the curtain pulled over them, she couldn't tell what time it was when she woke. Though the coals still glowed red on the grate, the room was freezing, and she pulled on her clothes while still under the covers. She knew already that she would have to thaw water if she wanted to wash her face and brush her teeth.

She rubbed her aching shoulder before she lit a candle – she'd need one on the stairs, if she didn't want to trip and break her neck. God did she wish Middle-Earth had paracetamol – somehow, Bard's dried herbs weren't as effective, and in any event she didn't want to waste them on pain that was her own damn fault.

Once she'd tiptoed downstairs, she found someone had cracked the shutters enough to let in a pale sliver of dawn light. The fire burned low, but a few candles were lit near it, providing enough light for someone to actually see what they were doing. Beside them, settled comfortably in an armchair, Arandur was knitting.

Lorna almost laughed. The kid was so curious about _everything_ that she shouldn't be surprised he'd had someone – probably Sigrid – teach him how to knit. His beginner's work was a lot better than her own fledgling efforts had been under her gran's tutelage, but since he was an Elf, that was only to be expected.

From the smell of it, someone had already made tea, so she poured herself a cup, watching Faelon and Menelwen out of the corner of her eye. They too sat near the fire, and seemed utterly absorbed in a game of Tiddlywinks, their concentration so intense that she was even more hard-pressed to keep a straight face. Seeing beautiful, ethereal Elves so occupied with mundane human things was funnier than it probably ought to be.

She put some oatmeal into a pot to soak, and retrieved her own knitting. The striped scarf she was making was almost long enough for someone to actually wear, and her simple stitches were neat enough that her gran would approve.

_Why do you do that? You have not much time._

Lorna twitched. That was an odd thought, and it did not sound like her own. What the hell did _that_ mean?

_You know I am coming for you, Lorna. There is so much in your mind that I do not yet possess._

She actually choked on her own spit. Sweet bloody Christ, was that _Thranduil_? It certainly sounded like his voice, which was not a thing she would ever forget, no matter how much she tried. He couldn't possibly actually be talking to her, could he? He'd had to touch her to get into her head the first time, and she didn't know how many miles were between Dale and Mirkwood, other than a lot.

She dropped her knitting, and all three Elves looked at her with concern. This was not a conversation – so to speak – that she could have around other people. Taking up her candle, she went back upstairs, to her own frigid room. Building up the fire was made difficult but her trembling hands, and though it was still too cold to open the shutters, she did it anyway, needing to see daylight. The sky had cleared overnight; the dawn was pearl-grey, with the faintest hint of pink on the horizon.

"All right, you bastard, I know you're not really here," she growled, sitting beside the fire. "You can't be in my bloody head at such a distance."

_Think of me as an echo, if you must. I_ am _coming for you, sooner rather than later. I will not hurt you, Lorna – I want only your mind._

"Isn't that what all men say?" she snapped. "My mind is my own – and in any event, what you've already got seems to've driven you around the bend. D'you really want to lose what few marbles you've got left?"

_Something can be done about that._

"Like _what_?"

No answer.

"You don't know, do you? You really haven't got a clue in hell. Oh, I've no doubt you'll get your hands on me eventually, but if I'm going down, _I'm taking you with me_," she snarled. "You might be Mister Powerful and Immortal, but in this you're as blind as I am. You'd _have_ to be, since you've not seen anything like it before."

Still there was no answer. There was, however, a sudden, blinding flash of pain behind her eyes, so shockingly intense that she almost fell over. For a split second, she wondered if her skull would crack in half; it felt as though he'd taken a nail gun to her brain, and poured salt over the wounds for good measure.

_My mind_, she thought, blazing fury taking possession of her in less than a heartbeat. The sheer force of it overrode the pain, and she welcomed it – the heat of it warmed her more thoroughly than any fire, the dump of adrenaline almost euphoric.

Lorna stood, and smiled humorlessly. "Try that again and I'll hunt you down and burn you alive," she said flatly. Shutting her eyes, she called on the worst of his memories she possessed – the dragonfire that had destroyed half of his face. Thranduil's Elvish powers of recall were so clear that she could _feel_ it – the blistering of skin and stench of burning hair, the boiling fat running in rivulets down his neck. Her rage was so high that to her the pain was only an echo, diluted until it felt like no more than a sunburn, and she shoved the entire thing inward, searching for the alien presence within her mind.

She must have found it, for Thranduil screamed. Had he been anyone else, the agony in it would have horrified her; as it was him, however, she felt only vicious satisfaction.

"You might be able to hurt me," she said, quiet and deadly, "but I can kill you. Fuck with my head again and I _will_."

He didn't reply, and she wondered if he was dead already. She probably wasn't that lucky, but if he was still alive, maybe she could use him. Lorna might not be able to do a damn thing against the real Thranduil, but the thing in her mind was not him. At best it was a parasite, and it she probably could control.

One thing was for damn sure. She had to tell Gandalf, whenever he turned up.

* * *

Tauriel woke before Katje, and went to order some oatmeal and tea for breakfast. Thankfully the sky had cleared, though from the sound of creaking timber, the wind was bad as ever. That would not make travel any fun at all, but at least they would not be buried in snow along the way.

She reconsidered the snowshoes while she waited for their food to be cooked. Some instinct told her they could not afford to slow down – it would be better if she continued carrying Katje, uncomfortable though it was for both of them. The fact that she didn't know just what she feared did not make that fear any less urgent.

When she took their food and tea back to their room, she found Katje awake, combing her tangled curls with her fingers. Her hair needed washing, but they didn't have the time. Hopefully Bard would let them bathe when they got there.

"I have found someone who can give you some proper clothes," Tauriel said, setting down the tray and handing Katje the comb from her pack. "We must hurry."

"What are we run from?" Katje asked, foregoing the comb in favor of snatching her bowl of oatmeal.

"I am uncertain," Tauriel said, taking a long gulp of tea. It had been flavored with orange peels, she noted. "It could be one of several things, and none of them are good. We will be safe when we reach Dale." She hoped, anyway.

"Always I am running," Katje said, between bites.

"The Men in Grey?" Tauriel asked.

Katje froze. "Yes," she said, suddenly wary. "How do you know of them?"

"Lorna. Our other cursed. She ran from them, before she was here." Tauriel was cursing herself, for not having spent more time on her English lessons.

"Wish I had managed that," Katje muttered. "How long is she here?"

"Nearly five months. She said little of the cursed, though."

Katje frowned. "So more many of us now. Five months ago there were maybe thousands. Now there are millions. Everywhere we were hunted, but now too many to hunt, and more every day. I wonder, are her and I only ones here?"

"I do not know. I cannot know until the snow thaws enough to allow messengers to be sent," she said, Sindarin taking over half of that sentence. "Neither can I believe you are here by chance, though – Lorna's arrival brought disaster, though it was not her fault. Perhaps you both have some part to play." She paused. "What is your curse?"

"I turn things into other things," Katje said. "Sometimes, and never into what I want." She held up her napkin, and quite suddenly, without transition of any kind, it was a very small spoon. "I want a sock, and I get spoon. Is useless."

Tauriel stared, and took it from her. It was, well, a spoon – tin, by the feel of it. She had heard of wizards doing such things, but Katje, like Lorna, registered to all her senses as pure Edain. "Katje, I hope there are not more of you," she said. "This is not our magic." She did not know enough English to convey the depths of the problems they would face, otherwise. "Come, hurry and finish eating. We just get you clothes."

* * *

Legolas, Galadriel, and Amaniel traveled in silence. Though he was grateful beyond measure to have found Galadriel, he could not shake his dread at the thought of what he might find upon their arrival in the Woodland Realm.

What if Galadriel could not cure his father? It might be possible to forcibly send him west, but Legolas doubted it. They could not simply keep him drugged the entire way – even Elves needed to eat and drink. The moment his father's faculties returned, everything would end in disaster – at this point, Legolas could well believe him willing to attack an Elf's mind.

He prayed that Tauriel and Galion had somehow managed to keep their King acting nominally like himself, or at least restrained him somehow. Galion was sneakier than he wanted anyone to know, and Tauriel was, well, _Tauriel_. She might not be willing to aim an arrow at his father's head again, but she wouldn't let him get away with anything overly stupid. Or so Legolas hoped.

It didn't help that once again it was snowing heavily. They were forced to move at a plodding pace, stopping frequently to rest the horses. Yet again he wondered if the Valar were conspiring against him, forcing him to allow his father to get up to some terrible mischief. He could not imagine why they would do so, but for whatever reason, they were not smiling on him now.

* * *

Thranduil was annoyed. The shade of Lorna in his mind would not shut up.

The clear dawn ought to have been peaceful, but no – she kept up a running commentary of reasons why this was a terrible idea.

_You can't fight all of Dale's army, let alone Erebor's. If they know what's happened – and you can bet your arse they do – they'll see this as war._

"They would not dare attack me," he said, and he was quite sure he was right. Even had Dain come stomping into the Woodland Realm, armed to the teeth, Thranduil could not have just killed him out of hand. No matter how tempting that might be.

_You don't think Faelon or Menelwen would shoot you if you tried to kill me?_ she snorted.

"For the last time, Lorna, I do not want to _kill_ you," he snapped. "Though you are making me reconsider that. Are you always this talkative?"

Her reply was utterly scathing. _You've been over my memories like a crazy cat lady with a scrapbook of her favorite kittens. You tell me._

That thought sat uneasy with him. Never had he known a person as well as he now knew Lorna – her strengths, her weaknesses, her joy and fear and sometimes shocking rage. He'd seen the darkest parts of her mind, the secrets she would never want anyone to know, and even now, after everything, he knew how wrong that was. These were things she would never have told him – or possibly anyone. He had not just seen the, he had _felt_ them, witnessing them as she had lived them.

She had killed her father when she was twenty, though by accident rather than design. _That_ was a memory that shook him, for rarely in his own life had he experienced such wrath, and she had been so very young, even by the standards of her own people.

_It had been a summer evening, blistering and humid. She'd been so strung out on even she didn't know what that the sunset seemed to bleed in the sky, the world around her fading in and out of clarity. The house that had so daunted her as a child held no terror for her now, nor did the man who lived within it. All there was now was rage, rage as red as the sunset, and she shoved sweat-sticky hair back from her forehead as she marched up the walk. She didn't know why she'd come back here after six years - wasn't even really sure how she'd got here, she was cruising on such a high. All she knew was that she was furious and wanted to beat someone senseless, and her father, to her addled mind, seemed the best target. Payback, she thought wildly, really was a bitch._

_The front door was open in a futile attempt at cooling down the stifling hovel, and she yanked the handle of the screen door so hard it broke off. She'd been unusually strong even then, and when, without preamble, she crossed the room and slugged her startled father, blood spurted in a red fountain from his nose. Her father was not a large man, but he was much larger than Lorna, and when he backhanded her it sent her staggering._

_"What the fuck do you think you're doing, you little bitch?" he demanded, advancing on her only to be halted by another punch that nearly broke his jaw. Small she might be, but Lorna had learned to fight on the streets, and to fight dirty, and when she hit him in the windpipe he went down, choking._

_"Paying you back for Mam, you worthless piece've shit." Without waiting for him to get up she kicked him, hard - in the ribs, and then the head. She'd come here with the intention of simply beating him up, but there was red murder in her heart now, and there was in her eyes that cold loathing that had so unsettled Von Ratched at the Institute - he could feel it, feel that frigid hatred that seemed to suffuse her every cell._

_With a jolt she realized he was afraid, actually _afraid _of her, and that made her laugh in a way that startled even Thranduil. She who had spent so many years in terror of her father now turned the tables with a vengeance, not pausing even when he grabbed her ankle and yanked her from her feet, pulling her down so she cracked her head on a rickety-end table so hard she actually greyed out. She could feel blood on her face, pouring from a gash at her temple, but she turned right around and smashed the ancient lamp that had been on the table over his head._

_That seemed to be enough for him - her father staggered to his feet and tried to make it out the door, but as soon as he'd reached it Lorna gained her own feet and punched him, hard, in the kidney. He'd weaved, staggered, and then fallen down the shallow steps, and the crack of his head on the concrete had forever imbedded itself in her memory. The unnatural angle of his neck, the pool of crimson that washed over the pavement - the sight made Lorna scream, a long exulted cry of triumphant rage. The enormity of what she'd done hadn't yet hit her, and wouldn't until she sobered up in jail - for now all she knew was that savage triumph, that terrible heady glee that came with watching her father bleed out on the walkway, watching his startled eyes film over._

He shuddered. Had Thranduil been Edain, he would have feared her. She was tiny, and had no nor unique skills to speak of, but she was a born survivor. Never could he bring himself to kill such a creature – not when he possibly understood her better than she understood herself. She was fierce and alive and even, in her own odd way, lovely, and her life would burn out all too soon without his intervention. Not until he took her memories did he realize what it truly was to be mortal – to know that you would one day die, and move on to no one really knew what. If the Eldar felt everything with the same immediacy as the Edain, perhaps they too would become mortal. Perhaps that was why there were no Elves in her world.

* * *

Katje was far more curious than she let on to Tauriel, but she had not lived this long by asking too many questions at once.

The woman wrapped her cloak about Katje's shoulders for their short trip to the tailor, for which Katje was immeasurably grateful; the icy wind off the lake almost stole her breath, and numbed her face within seconds. The docks were so slippery that she almost went right off the edge a few times, and when they reached the shop, she barely fought the urge to grip the doorframe like an anchor.

She couldn't understand a word Tauriel said to the tailor, but he produced soft wool trousers, a heavy white sweater such as the fishermen of Norway often wore, and an even heavier red cape with a hood. Boots were slightly more difficult; after a lot of negotiation and pointing at her feet, she wound up with a sturdy pair that she suspected were men's. From what little she had seen of the people here, only Tauriel was not markedly shorter than her.

For the sake of the tailor's possibly delicate sensibilities, she ducked into the back room the change, though she wouldn't have cared if she'd had to strip before God and everybody. The trousers were softer than she had expected, and more or less fit; the sweater was somewhat itchy, so she left her inmate T-shirt on under it. Having such warm clothing made her sigh with relief, because she would not now be _completely_ at the mercy of the elements. The boots were a little too large, but a pair of thick wool socks took care of that problem.

She'd have to find a way to pay Tauriel back, whenever they got where they were going. This much clothing couldn't be cheap, and the woman (or whatever she was), couldn't have been counting on rescuing a stranger stranded halfway up a tree. Weirdly, the cold didn't seem to bother _her_ too much at all, and the fact that she could carry someone taller than her so far was amazing – and a little disturbing. What was she?

Katje would find out eventually. Right now her only real worry was whether she was here to stay, or if she would somehow be sent back to the Institute.

If the latter was the case, she'd rather freeze to death.

* * *

According to Arandur, Gandalf had gone to Erebor some hours before dawn. Getting to him would require horseback riding, which Lorna did not want to try on her own. Fortunately, Menelwen took pity on her, and they borrowed one of Bard's rather bored horses.

The second ride (that she could actually remember) was no less terrifying than the first. Astride the horse, the frozen cobblestones seemed much too far below, and until Menelwen mounted, she had absolutely nothing to hang onto, because Elves rode without saddles. She was pretty sure the horse wasn't any happier about it than she was, since she sat, as Menelwen said, like a sack of potatoes. How else was there to sit?

At least there was no wind today; her Elven cloak kept her warm even when Menelwen kicked the horse to a gallop. That only worked until they left the city, though; to Lorna's secret relief, nobody had shoveled the main road in several days, and the snow was too deep for them to go any faster than a walk.

"What happened, Lorna?" Menelwen asked over her shoulder.

"I don't rightly know." It wasn't entirely a lie, either; she had no idea how Thranduil could have left something in her mind, when all he had done was take. "It freaked me the bloody hell out, though, and I think I need to tell Gandalf." What he might be able to _do_ about it, she didn't know, but he was Gandalf. She was sure he'd have some idea.

She hazarded a glance at the mountain around Menelwen's left side. The snow on it was so deep that the trees on the upper slopes were almost buried, but there was a great bear patch, too, rimmed with ice – the forges probably vented their heat there. Even as much hassle as all this snow was, Lorna still couldn't say she was sick of it – it was better than a Dublin winter, with its endless, dreary rain. The only problem was that it was so dry and powdery; her one attempt at a snowman had been a dismal failure. She'd had no idea that snow could be wet or dry. It was all snow, wasn't it?

Hot wetness touched her lip, chilling almost immediately. She wiped her nose, and her green glove came away dark with blood. _Fuck_. These gloves were some kind of soft leather – how the hell was she going to get that out?

It wasn't worth turning back for, so she pressed the edge of her cloak to her nose, and hoped the cold would stop it soon. She had no doubt at all that it was echo!Thranduil's fault, though whether it was his doing directly, or the result of her counter-attack, she couldn't say. Hopefully Gandalf would know.

_I told you I would not harm you, Lorna. In this, you have only yourself to blame._

She scowled, but she couldn't respond with Menelwen in front of her. Everyone had been at pains to tell her that Thranduil would not _hurt_ her, rather than not _harm_ her. Though she wasn't exactly surprised to find they were wrong.

Lorna was very, very afraid she was going to have to kill him. And she had no idea how.

* * *

Menelwen was worried, and she doubted it was without cause.

She knew there was no point in trying to get Lorna to tell her why they were really going all the way to Erebor in this cold – if Lorna wanted her to know, she would have told her already. She seemed more annoyed than frightened, though, which was hopefully a good sign.

The sudden scent of blood almost made Menelwen stop the horse. It did not smell like a large amount, but it was enough to make Lorna release her death-grip on Menelwen's waist. To her knowledge, Lorna hadn't had a bloody nose since they left the Woodland Realm, and there they had been caused by the close proximity of older Elves.

Menelwen cursed the fact that they couldn't go faster. She'd learned that Edain were not as fragile as she had at first thought, but this was a peculiar ailment that she did not know how to treat. She could only hope that Gandalf would. Fortunately it was not long to Erebor; _unfortunately_, it meant the Dwarves might discover far more than any of the Elves would wish. That, however, could not be helped.

* * *

The snow and silence reminded Katje forcefully of her childhood. Her grandparents had raised her, and when she was small, they had taken her to the countryside to go sledding.

The blinding glitter of the sunlight that glared off it meant she could not keep her eyes open or long, but when she did open them, she marveled at how very blue the sky was. There was no taint of pollution here at all.

Having proper clothing helped a great deal. She was still chilly, because Tauriel couldn't let her walk, but it was far better than yesterday. How in hell did the woman manage to walk _on_ the snow, rather than through it? What was she?

Even six months ago, Katje would have thought the idea of non-humans was impossible, but all she'd seen in the last eight months had left her far more open-minded. If something like the curses could be real, it was difficult to disbelieve anything anymore.

Katje was many things, but first and foremost, she was a pragmatist. She had always truly believed only in the evidence of her own eyes, and what her eyes now showed her was a woman with pointed ears who could walk on snow, and who could carry her for hours without faltering. No human could do that, ergo Tauriel was not human.

She also wouldn't say just what it was they were theoretically running from, which was more than a little worrisome. She carried a bow and two knives, the handles of which kept bashing Katje in the face; if she was afraid to deal with their pursuer even with such weapons, it had to be bad.

Eventually they stopped to rest, and Katje ducked behind a snowbank to pee, which was not remotely fun, and made all the worse by the fact that she had only snow to rinse her hands. When she returned to Tauriel, she found the woman had taken bread and a canteen of nearly-frozen water from her pack.

Katje, who by now felt practically starving, tore into the bread. The water she only sipped, and not just because it was so cold – the less she had to pee in the snow, the better.

"Katje, if a man catch up with us, run," Tauriel said, nibbling her own bread. "Whatever direction you can. Do _not_ let him catch you. I will hold him off if I can, but it is likely he will kill me."

Katje's eyebrows rose to her hairline, a chill that had nothing to do with the snow passing through her. She was so tired of running, and the last time she'd tried to evade someone, she'd failed. Badly. "What will he do if he catch me?"

Tauriel sighed. "I do not know. He went through the mind of the last cursed he find, and I do not think he hurt her, but he is…sick, now. It may be he will hurt _you_."

Katje felt the blood drain from her face. How cruel was Fate, to rescue her from one telepathic sadist and place her in the path of another? She would have nightmares of Doctor von Ratched for the rest of her life, she was sure; another one might well break her.

"Give me one of your knife," she said. "If worse come to worse, I will kill myself. I will not go through that again. _Ever_."

Tauriel blinked at the vehemence in her tone. "Lorna said the same. Almost the same. She did not know the doctor's name, but I think it must be same as yours is. She is why Thranduil will follow – he want the rest of her mind."

Katje shuddered, pitying this Lorna, whoever she was. She could not have been at the Institute; that was such an unusual name that Katje would have remembered it. "What is her curse?"

"Like Thranduil and your doctor. She reads minds, if she wants to or not."

Katje shuddered again, this time at the thought of what Von Ratched would have done, if he'd got his hands on another telepath. "Who is Thranduil? Is he doctor?"

"No," Tauriel said grimly, "he is my King."

Katje turned that over in her mind. "_Fuck_."

* * *

Lorna's nose had stopped bleeding by the time they reached the gates of Erebor, and she wiped it as best she could on the hem of her cloak. The fabric was dark green, so the stain shouldn't be _too_ obvious.

She'd warned Menelwen not to let on to the Dwarves that she could understand Westron now – that would open up a line of questioning none of them needed right now. Plus, it was amazing the things people would say in front of you, if they thought you didn't understand. She'd freaked more than one Russian out that way.

She let Menelwen greet the guard, who eyed Lorna strangely. "Is she ill?" he asked.

Shit. She must still have blood on her nose.

"No," Menelwen said. "It is only the cold, but we need to find Mithrandir."

"Why?" the Dwarf asked. "If she is not ill, what need would you have of the wizard?"

"It is a private matter that he will want to know of," Menelwen said firmly. "It is up to him to reveal however much he wishes of it."

"_Wizards_," the Dwarf muttered, and Lorna almost laughed. "Very well. He is with King Dain."

Well, that was shite to the nth degree. Still, the king would find out sooner or later, and she really would let Gandalf decide who needed to know what. He knew Dain; she didn't.

The heat of the entrance hall was a blessing, and she basked in it for a moment. She was more than a little worried about being around so many mortal minds, but this was an errand that instinct told her couldn't wait. She could suck it up and deal with it, no matter how much of a headache it gave her.

Another Dwarf led them through the halls, which at least were far emptier than they'd been on her last visit – presumably, everyone was at work. He was a surly-looking bloke, his head bald save or a thick, wild fringe round the base of his skull, and a long scar on his weathered face. "What need has she of an Elf to bring her here?" he asked bluntly.

"Because she cannot speak Westron, Master Dwalin," Menelwen said serenely. "She would not know how to ask for Mithrandir."

Lorna almost tripped over her own feet. Dwalin, she was sure, was one of the Dwarves on Thorin's Quest. She was tempted to try to focus on his mind, but that would be beyond rude. _Not Thranduil_, she reminded herself. Even touching one mind would be a damn slippery slope.

It seemed Dwalin accepted this, for he said no more, and let Lorna gawk like a tourist in peace. One trip was not nearly enough to get used to the sheer grandeur of this place. They passed a long line of massive statues, and she thought they must represent various Dwarf-kings. All were smooth as marble, but they were pure black, the torchlight glittering off what she suspected were flecks of mica too small to be seen.

Her head began to ache the further they went, but she'd expected that, and tried to shove the pain to the back of her mind. Keeling over in front of the Dwarves was not an option.

Dwalin led them to what she assumed was a council chamber, though not the one they'd been to on her last trip here. It was hardly crowded, but the long, scarred oak table had few spare seats. Balin was among them, dressed in rich brown robes, which meant she'd have to speak English to Gandalf, and hope he'd get the gist of what she had to say.

King Dain stop speaking when they entered, and the ensuing silence felt awkward to her, which was really saying something.

"We need to borrow Mithrandir for a moment, King Dain," Menelwen said in Westron.

"What happened to her?" Dain asked, pointing to Lorna.

"We do not know," Menelwen said, "which is why we need Mithrandir."

Lorna caught a snippet of his thoughts, but they were in no language she recognized. She didn't need telepathy to know he was suspicious, and she couldn't exactly _blame_ him, either.

He might have said no, had her nose not chosen that moment to start bleeding again. She swore in Irish, trying to find a dry patch on the edge of her cloak to staunch it. Christ did her head hurt, and it grew worse with every passing moment.

Gandalf hopped to his feet, and immediately ushered her into an antechamber filled with shelves of ale. "What happened?" he asked.

Menelwen wasn't around to here, so Lorna sat on a keg and told him everything, her words muffled a little by her cloak. Her headache lessened a little now that she was not directly surrounded by Dwarves, but it was definitely still there – a dull, queasy, thumping pain behind her eyes.

Even in the dim light, she could see the grimness in his expression. "Lorna, you must let me look at something," he said. "I will not enter your mind, but I believe Thranduil did more damage than even I suspected, and I cannot know until I have checked."

She drew a deep, steadying breath. She'd trusted Gandalf so far, and he'd never yet let her down, so she nodded.

He laid his left hand on her hair, muttering under his breath. If he was poking around the outside of her mind, she couldn't feel it at all. Her nose stopped bleeding halfway through his strange chant, so that was a plus.

Abruptly he drew back, and his face was even grimmer. Her heart sank to her toes. "I cannot give you the aid you need," he said. "Not with what little I have to work with. Your brain is bleeding. You are dying, Lorna."

* * *

Because, you know, Lorna didn't have enough problems already. Next up, Tauriel and Katje reach Dale, Gandalf tries to figure out how to keep Lorna from bleeding to death in the brain, and Lorna and Thranduil finally have a showdown.

Title means "Like you were dying" in Irish, referencing the song _Live Like You Were Dying_


	15. Cruinniú de na Aigne

In which Tauriel and Katje find safety, Thranduil crashes the party (and nobody has fun), and he and Lorna actually meet face-to-face (which, predictably, does not end well).

* * *

"Dying?" Lorna demanded. "I thought Thranduil didn't fuck anything up in my head." But then, he wasn't the first person to give her a nosebleed. Maybe this shite started even before he shoved his way into her mind. "Is there anything I can do about it?"

"We need supplies that only the Elves possess," Gandalf said, "and it would be impossible to sneak into Thranduil's halls undetected. I dare not leave you to go myself, but perhaps Elladan or Elrohir would have better luck – he can hardly imprison either of them. I can slow this, but I cannot halt it."

Well, that…she'd known she might die, but she'd figured she'd get stabbed or something, not die of an aneurysm or embolism or some other kind of ism. It was kind of a shit way to go.

"Keep me alive until I can get Thranduil," she said. "If I'm going down, I'm taking him with me."

* * *

Dain was curious – and irritated. He'd found out nothing at all about the Elves and the woman, though not for want of trying. Tharkûn was as tight-lipped as could be expected of a wizard, and only the young Elf, Arandur, did much mingling with the folk of Dale. He asked much, and offered little.

When Tharkûn and the woman emerged from the ale closet, they both looked so stricken that he didn't have the heart to press either for information. Their expressions filled him with deep misgiving, and a strange, formless dread stirred in his mind. Something was coming – something very, very bad.

* * *

Tauriel refused to stop for the night, to Katje's annoyance. It was impossible to sleep while clinging to someone else's back like a monkey, but on this Tauriel seemed immovable. So Katje played monkey, and was miserable.

The sunset was gorgeous, and meant she could actually open her eyes without going snowblind. Unfortunately, it also meant that it got even colder. Her arms and legs were numb from lack of movement, and her nose would not stop running.

Neither would Tauriel, who was apparently determined to sprint to whatever their destination actually was. She was, it would appear, tireless, and did not even seem to lose her breath.

On and on they ran – first in darkness, then in moonlight that reflected off the snow so brilliantly that it was nearly bright as day. Katje could have appreciated the beauty much more if she wasn't convinced she was about to freeze to death. She needed to pee again, but there was no way she was dropping her trousers in this cold. Her pee would probably freeze before it hit the ground.

The moon was well on its way to setting when she saw something in the distance – lights, a whole row of them, up in the air as though they ran along a wall. Please, _please_ let that be something approaching civilization – or at least something with an indoor toilet.

"What is that?" she asked.

"The city of Dale," Tauriel said, not missing a step or a breath. "Safety, once we are behind that wall."

Well, that was good to know. It must be outside her asshole King's jurisdiction.

The lights grew ever larger and brighter as they approached, and when they drew near enough, Katje saw guards in armor atop the wall. Was this entire place some kind of medieval world? She had hoped that the town on the lake was a fluke, but no – there wasn't any sign of technology, not even an electric lightbulb.

The gates – huge and heavy, made of some dark wood that looked black in the dim light – were shut, but there was a man in the guardhouse, seated on a bench with his feet rested beside a small woodstove. He did not seem at all surprised by either of them, outlandish though they no doubt looked.

"Bard?" he said, arching an eyebrow.

Tauriel nodded, letting Katje down on her own feet. Her legs were so numb she almost couldn't walk.

The guard sighed, and knocked on the gate a few times. One massive door opened on surprisingly silent hinges, allowing them to pass into a town that was almost entirely dark. Everything appeared to be made of stone, from what little she could see – which at least meant the city wasn't likely to burn down, like most of the major cities in Europe before the twentieth century.

"Bard will not be please to see us at this time," Tauriel said, "but he is a good man, and he will not turn us away. We can rest safe today."

Katje, at this point, would happily sleep in a barn, which was not a thing she would have ever thought she would say. At least walking forced some warmth back into her limbs, though it also made her need to pee all the more urgent. And yet, cold, tired, and uncomfortable though she was, this was still miles better than the Institute.

* * *

Tauriel, now that the gates of Dale were closed firmly behind her, finally allowed herself to relax a little. They were in no danger of being run down like animals by Thranduil, which had been her great fear. Bard would allow them a place to rest, and she still had food, so they need not eat his.

He would likely still be asleep at this hour, but if the other Elves were staying with him – and she was sure that at least a few of them were – one was bound to be awake to let them in.

The light of a hearth-fire still glowed around the edges of the shutters, which had to be a good sign. When Tauriel knocked, it was Arandur who answered. He was holding a pair of knitting needles, and what looked like half a mitten.

"Bard is going to kill us," he said solemnly, standing aside to let them in.

"He did not kill us for Beleg and Sadronniel," Faelon said. "Tauriel. I would have thought you would be the last to leave the Woodland Realm."

"Circumstances change," she said grimly. "This is Katje. She's from Lorna's world."

Faelon stared, and he wasn't the only one. Good grief, Bard had more guests than she'd thought – Faelon and Menelwen, Beleg and Sadronniel, one son of Elrond, _and_ Mithrandir.

Bard really was going to kill them.

"Bathroom," Katje said firmly, giving the group only the briefest of once-overs. Menelwen, who knew the word, led her through the room and down a corridor.

"She is _what_?" Faelon demanded, while Arandur shut and bolted the door behind her.

"I found her much as we found Lorna," Tauriel said. "Although Katje was halfway up a tree. She would have frozen to death, had I not run across her."

"How do you know she is from Lorna's world?" Arandur asked, taking her pack and setting it aside.

"She is cursed, though not in the same manner as Lorna. Mithrandir, you must get Katje to demonstrate her curse, once she is rested. I have never seen anything like it."

The old wizard did not look nearly as intrigued as she might have expected. There was a strange gravity to his expression that Tauriel did not like at all.

"What has happened?" she asked.

"He will not tell us," Faelon replied. "Believe me, we have tried. Elladan ran off into the night without so much as a word of explanation – I'm surprised you didn't pass him."

They probably had, albeit unknowingly. The sons of Elrond were good at only being seen when they wanted to.

"You have tried too much," Mithrandir said. "Tauriel, what news of Thranduil?"

She strode over to the fire, warming her hands and watching the wizard intently. "He is asleep, or so I hope. I drugged him. And everyone else who drank out of that wine-barrel."

Elrohir burst out laughing. "You _didn't_."

"I had no other choice," she said, her face heating. "He intended to ride for Dale, and I could hardly let him. I do not know how long he will sleep, but I hope it will be for a while yet."

"I need certain things that only your healers possess," Mithrandir said. "I sent Elladan to fetch them. If Thranduil sleeps, he may actually complete his errand."

"Mithrandir, _what is it_?" Elrohir asked, exasperated.

Mithrandir sighed. The sons of Elrond did tend to have that effect on people. "Lorna is…ill," he said. "And I cannot heal her without supplies that are only to be found among the Elves."

Even in the firelight, Tauriel could see Arandur pale. "What is wrong with her?"

"She is bleeding in her brain. I can slow it, but I cannot stop it."

Tauriel didn't ask what caused it. She didn't need to.

* * *

Menelwen was vastly curious about this new Edain woman. Physically, she was so very unlike Lorna – as tall as many Elves, pale-skinned and golden-haired like the people of Rohan.

She looked to be in a much better mood, too, once she'd emerged from the privy, though her face was grey with exhaustion, her lips still faintly blue from the cold.

"There is a bedroom upstairs," Menelwen said, hoping her English was decent enough. "I will build a fire, then you rest."

"_Thank you,_," the woman – Katje – breathed fervently. "I have not walk today, yet I am tired." Strangely, her English sounded as stilted as Menelwen's. It obviously was not her mother tongue.

The bedroom Menelwen led her to was frigid, but Katje did not seem to care. She sat on the bed and unlaced her boots, but watched as Menelwen kindled the fire. Lorna had said that many in her world no longer heated things with fire, and Katje's curiosity would suggest she was one of those who did not. When it began crackling in earnest, she came and sat in front of it, basking like a cat.

"Sleep well," Menelwen said. Katje made a wordless noise of gratitude, and Menelwen left her to it.

So there was another from Lorna's world. She wondered how many more would turn up, and why in Eru's name they were being brought here.

* * *

Thranduil was troubled, and he did not know why.

Even his great elk needed to rest at times, so he had made a brief camp outside Esgaroth. A strange, creeping sense of dread had formed in his mind, with no provenance. It was not the echo-Lorna's doing; she was as uneasy as him. She remained silent while he watched the moon sail across the sky.

What was he doing? He wanted what was in Lorna's mind, but he could no longer remember precisely why. It was a need, a craving so absolute that it was all but impossible to think of anything else. But what would he do once he had it? Her memories were finite, and she did not know how to make any of the amazing things he wanted to build _work_.

He needed another Edain of her world – one who _did_ know. How he was to find one, however, he had no idea. It was unlikely that she was the only one of her kind who had come here, but much of Middle-Earth was an unforgiving place. Lorna herself would have died in the forest, but for his patrol. Perhaps death had been the fate of many already, and he would never know.

Thought of Lorna made him feel oddly guilty. He owed that woman much, and he would owe her even more when he was through. Seeing the joy and pain, grief and happiness of mortality, was a gift he could not have foreseen. Never had he understood the lives of the Edain, and maybe he still did not, but he understood Lorna. Perhaps she was common for her kind, and perhaps she was not, but to him she was unique, and deserved far better than what he had given to her at this point. He would give her a home among his people, if she would allow it – would give her a garden like the one she had had while living with her sister. Should she wish to travel, he would give her a retinue to keep her safe in this unfamiliar land, so much wilder than her own.

But he did not want her to travel. Some odd part of him would keep her near, because he _understood_ her. He knew why she was the way she was, which was not something he could say of anyone else. She was strange and more than a little dangerous, with a wildness she had tamed over the years, and he wanted to see her through his eyes now, not just through hers.

She would forgive him. He would make her, if he had to.

* * *

Lorna, understandably, did not sleep that night, instead staring out of the window of her room and trying to control her temper.

Dying. _Dying_. It wasn't fair, but she'd learned long ago that fairness was an arbitrary concept that had no basis in reality.

Well. She'd had fun here, a least, even with all the bullshit. And she'd definitely lived longer than she would have if the Men in Grey had caught her. So there was that.

She wanted to kill Thranduil. It was possible to kill an Elf, she knew; she'd seen it in his memories. The problem was that everyone had taken great pains to remind her that she couldn't do it. She was, after all, just one very small human, who had lived maybe a hundredth of his lifespan.

No, killing him just wasn't a realistic possibility, but she could possibly make him _wish_ he was dead. He couldn't have all her memories, and there were some nasty things in her head. She'd already inadvertently cracked his mind, and maybe the rest of her memories and the force of her curse could break it. And he'd have to live forever like that.

She wrapped her duvet more tightly around her shoulders, and watched the stars. Something was going on downstairs, but she didn't have the energy to investigate it. Right now she needed time to herself.

_I won't let you die, Lorna._ Her inner Thranduil sounded remarkably subdued – his words were not a threat, but a promise. He actually seemed contrite, which she hadn't thought possible.

"I don't see how you can promise that," she said. "You're not a neurosurgeon. And anyway, I don't want your help." She'd rather have some kind of brain-ism than accept any aid from that son of a bitch. Elladan was on a mission, and somehow she doubted he was an Elf accustomed to failure.

If she did kick the bucket, at least she'd see her mother again, and Liam, provided the dead from this world went to the same place they did from hers. Oh, she had dozens of regrets, of things left unfinished, but who didn't? It was the grief her friends would suffer that really bothered her, especially after what Arandur had said. Faelon and Menelwen, being warriors, had probably lost friends already, but Arandur was a scholar, so she wasn't so sure about him. It would hurt them, but it wasn't as though she could do anything about it. Either what Elladan had set out to do would work, or it wouldn't. She had no say in the matter.

She should probably cry about it now, while she actually had the time, but she couldn't. And strangely, she didn't really want to. Maybe she was in shock, or maybe it truly didn't matter to her. It was too soon to be sure.

Moonlight spilled in through the window, rendering the room in shadows and silver. Tomorrow she would go snow-diving again, and enjoy the hell out of whatever time she had left.

* * *

Arandur did not know what to do.

He wanted to go to the Woodland Realm after Elladan, but Menelwen pointed out that not only would he simply be imprisoned if he did, he was the best friend Lorna had here. She would surely want to keep him near.

Of course Menelwen was right, but he still felt wretched. He had known from the first that befriending a mortal would only end in pain, but he had not known it would come so soon. Five months was short even by mortal reckoning.

He went outside, needing solitude. The cold focused his mind, and the light of so many stars was a comfort. There was nothing he could do now, but when he reached Imladris, he could at least write an account of these last months – of the first of the cursed Edain to come to Middle-Earth. Katje was evidence that more would follow, and possibly quite soon. In time there might well be a kingdom of them, and they should know of their forerunner.

Meanwhile, he would not dare befriend Katje. He did not think he could endure such a loss again.

* * *

Elladan left well before dawn, wishing the trail was passable for a horse. On foot, it would take over a week to get to the Woodland Realm and back, and even Gandalf did not know how much time Lorna had. Elves and wizards could do many things, but even they could not raise the dead.

A layer of ice had formed over the snow, so thick that a small Edain could have walked atop it. It made his going easier, too, and he hoped it meant the Valar smiled on him. The light of the setting moon reflected off it as though it were made of prism, rendering pale rainbows where the snow had drifted.

He trod onward into the rising dawn, wishing that Lorna and Katje had turned up in Imladris, along with whoever else might get dropped here. It would not be easy for them, but at least they need not worry that anyone would invade their minds.

Golden sunrise had painted the snow by the time he was halfway to Esgaroth, and there he saw something that chilled his blood – a massive elk, and a rider who could only be Thranduil.

Lorna had taught him a curse, the only thing he could think of that was appropriate to the situation: _motherfucker_. Elladan turned, and raced toward Dale as fast as he could. He had to warn them of what approached.

Bard really was going to kill them this time.

* * *

Bard was in fact quite unhappy about having his late breakfast spoiled by news that the Elvenking was about to cause him a great deal of trouble.

He could not allow Thranduil into his city – not when he meant to do any of its inhabitants harm. The Elves and Lorna might not have lived here long, but live here they did, and it was his duty to protect them. Them, and the other blasted woman Tauriel had brought in the night. At this rate, he might as well open an inn and have done with it.

He shrugged into his official robes, which he hated, and buckled on his ceremonial sword. Thranduil by himself could not break down the city gates, even with the massive beast he rode, but two Elves had breached his city's security already, and Thranduil was both crafty and apparently half insane. Should he be truly determined, he would not need the gate.

Bard did not have the training for this. Thranduil and Dain had been born royalty, raised from birth to know what a lord needed to do in any given situation, whereas he had no idea how to handle this or anything like it. He could not afford to offend Thranduil over-much, but he also couldn't allow Thranduil to attack any of his people. What in Eru's name was he supposed to do, if Thranduil did? They could hardly shoot the monarch of a neighboring kingdom.

The streets were unusually crowded when he made for the gates, which did not help at all. Most seemed to be wondering why the gates were closed at this hour, and half of them were apparently determined to ask the guards themselves.

Bard pushed his grim way through the press, climbing the icy steps to the top of the wall. The ramparts at least were bare and dry, kept clear by the guards who paced them day and night.

Sure enough, there was Thranduil, approaching on his elk. Bard would freely admit that the Elvenking intimidated him, because Thranduil intimidated _everyone_ – even Dain, to an extent, though the Dwarf would never admit to it. Most Elves seemed, if not remote, at least rather alien, but Thranduil was as remote as the star his people called the Mariner, sailing forever across the sky.

"King Thranduil," he called. "You have come a long way in some foul weather."

Thranduil halted his mount when he reached the gates, looking up at Bard with his unsettling pale eyes. There was so little color to the Elvenking that it was unnerving, and it was all the more so against a backdrop of snow. At least he had not come in his armor; he wore a cloak of light grey fur, but did not bear any visible weapons – though he likely had his sword.

"I have great cause," he said. "You have some things of mine."

There was something…off…in his voice. Honestly, there was something vaguely wrong with his expression, too – it was subtle, almost indefinable, but the odd light in his eyes made Bard believe the reports that he had gone mad. And to call his own people 'things'…no, Bard could not let him through the gates.

"I have no things here, my lord," he said. "Only people, who have chosen to make their homes here for a time."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "They are my subjects."

_Not all of them_, Bard thought. "When last I heard, my lord, Elves were a free folk. I cannot let you pass into my city, if you mean to bring harm to anyone within it."

A spasm of rage twisted the Elvenking's face for a moment. "You will give me what is mine," he said, his voice so low and deadly that Bard fought a shudder.

"There is nothing in here that is yours. Your people came to me of their own free will. I will not force them to face your wrath."

"Then you would face it in their stead?" Thranduil asked, his expression now outright murderous.

What could he say to that? What possible answer could he give, that would not spell war?

"My lord, what do we do?" the guard behind him asked.

_I wish I knew_, Bard thought.

* * *

Arandur was utterly terrified, but he could not hide in Bard's house like a child. He followed the others, who were in turn following Mithrandir. Both the Edain were asleep, and there was no point in waking them, but the Elves, those from the Woodland Realm and from Imladris, needed to face this mad king. What any of them were to do about him, Arandur had no idea, but at the very least they needed to make their presence known.

So they hurried through the frozen streets, weaving through the crowd like salmon in a stream. His pulse hammered in his throat, butterflies twisting in his gut – would the King try to shoot any of them? Was he so far gone as to attempt a kinslaying? Arandur prayed not, but King Thranduil had been unpredictable even when he'd been sane.

Mithrandir pushed his way to the walls, looking up at Bard. The poor man was sweating even in this cold, but when he turned enough for Arandur to catch a glimpse of his expression, Arandur paused. Bard looked strained, yes, and concerned, but he also looked deeply confused.

He descended the steps very slowly, and fixed Mithrandir with a look both worried and bewildered. "He left," he said.

"He what?" Arandur blurted. That…well, that did not sound like his King at all.

"He left. Come, all of you. I must speak with you." He actually grabbed Arandur, though he was wise enough not to also grab Mithrandir.

The entire lot of them had to weave their way back through the crowd, many of whom were asking Bard innumerable questions – so many that Arandur doubted he could make out any single one.

"I do not know," he said, loud enough to break over the din. "I will tell you all when I have something worth saying, but for now, I do not know. You must give me the chance to find out."

"Find out what?" someone called.

"Anything," Bard said. "Anything at all."

_We might regret that_, Arandur thought. He did not for a moment believe that King Thranduil had simply turned around and gone home – he was planning something, and it was not going to be anything good. They were all of them going to have to guard the walls, because if Beleg and Sadronniel could find their way in, he could, too.

* * *

Lorna finally fell asleep sometime around dawn, curled up in a lump of blankets and hair.

When she woke again, it was to the unwelcome discovery that she'd drooled on her pillow. The sun was well up in the clear blue sky – the never had been great at telling time without a watch, but she thought it was probably around eleven. That was a nice long nap, and she actually felt rested. Her head was pain-free, which was also a plus. Some tea and some very late breakfast, and maybe she could find some positive aspect to the fact that she was, you know, _dying_. Right now she was so warm and comfortable that even that couldn't bother her too much yet. After all, there was always a chance (thought admittedly slim) that Elladan would get whatever it was that Gandalf needed to cure her.

Of course, her good mood couldn't be allowed to last. A hand clamped down over her mouth, muffling her when she screeched like a mashed cat. Her legs and arms were still tangled in the blankets – she couldn't hit her attacker, so she sank her teeth into the hand, chewing like a maddened zombie.

As with Elladan, it worked; the hand snatched away, and its owner let out a wordless noise of disgust. Lorna used the opportunity to scramble upright, wishing like hell that she'd left her boots on, and also wishing that she had some better weapon than a pillow. She shoved her tangled hair back from her face, ready to sock her attacker in the jaw –

Son of a bitch. It was fucking _Thranduil._

It was at this point that Lorna realized she had watched too many Will Smith movies with her nieces and nephews, because the first words out of her mouth, complete with an atrocious attempt at an American accent, were, "Oh, _heyyl_ no."

Somehow, the fucker looked even creepier than he had the last time she'd seen him – and that was really saying something. He'd got even paler (and he'd been pretty damn white already), and his face was thinner, like he'd been starving himself. As for his frigging zombie eyes – he looked like he'd peered into hell, and it had looked back. Had her memories really traumatized him _that_ badly? Sure, Earth was a lot different, but she didn't think it would be enough to break his brain.

He said nothing, and she didn't know what _to_ say. Logically she ought to scream bloody murder, but he could probably snap her neck before anyone even reached the stairs. The silence was so awful that she had to break it, but what she actually said surprised even her.

"You killed me, you know. I'm not dead yet, but I will be."

Thranduil blinked. She hadn't thought he was capable of that. "_What?_" he demanded.

Lorna scrambled to her feet – standing on the bed, she could more or less look him in the eye. "Did I fucking stutter? _You killed me_. Gandalf said my brain's bleeding. That's fatal to us squishy, inferior mortals without surgery, which this backwards-arse world hasn't got."

She couldn't read his expression at all, and it infuriated her. Goddammit, he'd give her some kind of reaction, even if she had to hit him with a shovel. "Will you fucking say something? 'Sorry, Lorna, I didn't mean to break your brain'. Or maybe, 'Hah, you puny mortal, I _did_ mean to break it.' Bloody fucking hell, you at least owe me a response."

Still he was silent, and she was ready to lamp his lights out, until he finally said, "You cannot be dying. I was too careful."

That was the wrong answer. She knew hitting him would hurt nothing but her own hand, but it would make _her_ feel better. She went after him with her weaker right arm, ignoring the lingering pain in her shoulder – he could catch that blow, and leave her free to hit him with her dominant left hand, or so she hoped.

Catch her he did, but he must have been off his game, because her left fist actually made contact with his face. Of course the blow didn't faze him at all, but maybe, just maybe, she'd leave a bruise. She debated kicking him, but even through the heat of her rising ire, she knew it would be pointless. No, there was only one thing she could do – it was a terrible idea, and it would probably hurt like hell, but the red mist of her rage demanded it. His right hand held her left forearm, but his left had caught her right fist – he was touching her directly, and oh Christ would she use that.

She called up the worst of her memories – her mother's death, and Liam's, what she'd done to her father and what that doctor had done to her. It was possible he had them already, but she'd hit him with everything at once, with all the pain and grief and wrath of her life packed into a concentrated ball of horrible. She added the worst of _his_ memories, too: the dragonfire that had scarred his face for all eternity. It coiled within her like a rattlesnake, forming out of all the poison she had to give, and she forced it out through her fingers to his. Fuck him. _Fuck him._

It must have worked, because Thranduil recoiled, releasing her arms. He looked like he'd been sucker-punched in the gut, and Lorna laughed, even as she felt the heat of blood leave her nose, stinging salty on her upper lip. That had probably been epically stupid, but she'd had to do it.

She wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "You sure you want the rest've what's in my head?"

Silence. He looked so utterly appalled that she could have laughed again, if not for the sudden shooting pain behind her eyes. If she keeled over right now, his expression would be worth it.

"Lorna," he said, but faltered, as though uncertain what else to say, because really, what else _could_ be said? "Lorna, come with me."

Well, _that_ she had not expected. "_What?!_" she demanded, and then, in English, "are you out've your fucking tree?"

"Yes," he said, also in English – apparently the linguistic comprehension had gone both ways. "I have done you a great wrong, Lorna. I can never atone for it, but I can save your life."

"And then what?" she spat. "Dig through my brain again? Keep me where you can fix me every time something breaks? I don't want your help. I don't want to live in a world with people like _you_."

She'd swear he flinched a little, and she thought of what Gandalf had told her: that Thranduil was not, at heart, an evil person. She hadn't bought it at the time, but someone truly evil would not flinch at that, even so minutely.

The pain in her head was fast approaching crippling, but she tried to focus. "Go away, Thranduil," she said. "No one wants you here."

Predictably, he didn't respond; just as predictably (and irritatingly), he didn't move. Christ, would _nothing_ shift him?

Her head hurt so much that it was sit down or fall down, so Lorna sat, wiping her nose on her sleeve. Maybe if she ignored him, he'd leave, and she could nurse her killer headache in peace. If she'd trusted her own legs, she'd have tried to go get Gandalf, but the agony behind her eyes was so horrible it was nauseating. Her sleeve was developing a worryingly large damp patch, but she didn't care. She hadn't done what she'd wanted, but she'd done what she could do.

"I know you will never forgive me for this, Lorna," he said at last, "but I owe you a debt, and I cannot pay it if you are dead."

Before she could ask what the hell that meant, there was a gentle pressure on her hair – and then nothing.

* * *

Because, you know, this is going to end well. At least she temporarily smacked some of the crazy out of him.

Title means "Meeting of the minds" in Irish.

I haven't heard from anybody in a while. Somebody drop me a review and tell me if I'm on track or way off of it, please?


	16. Díoltas

I just…poor Thranduil. He totally deserves this, but still. Poor Thranduil.

* * *

Of all the things Thranduil had expected, this was not one of them.

He had seen so much through Lorna's eyes that actually seeing _her_ was a shock. That she would attack him was not so surprising, though the manner in which she did so was. He certainly had not thought her capable of it.

He meant what he said – he owed her much, and he greatly disliked being indebted to anyone. He could make no attempt at reparation if she was dead, therefore he could not let her die.

Neither could he deal with all the others right now – he did not have the patience, and Lorna did not have the time. If he saw one of the twins on his journey back to the Woodland Realm, he would give instructions to tell the others that he intended to save Lorna, not harm her. He did not need the entire lot of them trying to hunt him down until he had a decent head start.

Lorna had been using her cloak as an extra blanket, so he wrapped her in it like a child. She was surprisingly heavy for how little she was – but then, one could not hit as hard as she did without muscle to back it up. He tried to staunch her bloody nose with the cloak, and saw a dark stain that told him she'd done it once already. Her boots were easily laced, though they were almost disturbingly small to him – he could almost fit her entire foot in the palm of his hand.

He had come in through the window of an empty bedroom, and he left that way as well. Bard might think he had guards stationed at every entrance to the city, but Thranduil knew Dale far better than he did. There was an ancient waterway that ran deep beneath the city, stretching westward for a good five miles: centuries ago, a river had run through it, but the tributary had long since dried up. Mortal lives being as short as they were, it was no great wonder that none now remembered it.

It was very dark, but he needed no light to walk in a straight line. Lorna remained unconscious, but her nose still bled. Unfortunately, there was not, at the moment, anything he could do about it, save try to keep her head tilted back in the hope that it would stop on its own.

He tried not to think about what she had said, but he couldn't help it. People like him, she had snarled, as though he were on par with the Dark Lord. He was not a cruel person, not really, and he would not have her die thinking that he was. Her words were a severe blow to his pride, and to whatever dark, twisted thing passed for what remained of his honor.

But oh, did he want the rest of what lay in her mind. She'd shocked the craving right out of him, but a little of it remained, simmering at the back of his own mind. It was rather like the drugs she had taken in her adolescence – dangerous and addictive. If he tried to take anything from her now, though, it would kill her – and prove her right. He was not a monster, and he would not be a monster – or at least, not more of one than he had been already. He was one of the Eldar, for Eru's sake; he would not be ruled by addiction. If Lorna, a mere Edain, could overcome hers, he could surely beat his.

The elk was patiently waiting at the end of the tunnel. The creature still did not have a name; all of Thranduil's elk had named themselves, and this one had yet to choose his. He had been sired by the elk who had died in the Battle of Five Armies, and was every bit as loyal as his father.

Loading Lorna onto his back was a slightly difficult proposition, even when he knelt in the snow. Worryingly, her nose was even yet bleeding, droplets of red speckling the elk's fur. He mounted behind her, careful not to let her topple of the other side. She was as inert as a sack of flour, and approximately the same size.

Thranduil wrapped his cloak around her, just as he had with Legolas when he was small. If nothing else, the cold ought to stop her nosebleed. Edain were so fragile that it was only somewhat uncertain he could get her to his halls alive, but she stood a better chance than if he left her in Dale and waited for Elladan to go to the Woodland Realm and return with medicine. There was no way of knowing yet what she even needed.

* * *

Something very big had gone down, and Katje had no idea what. All the non-humans were running around like very graceful headless chickens, while the human man was grim-faced and still.

Since she couldn't understand a word anyone said, she focused on their expressions and body-language: in her line of work, nonverbal communication was sometimes more important than speech. It was more difficult with these people, who were all somewhat understated compared to humans, but she did it anyway, lurking in a corner and nibbling a piece of bread.

That they were worried would have been obvious to anyone. They were all gearing up to leave, but two of them – a man with auburn hair, and a strawberry blonde woman – radiated unease. They did not want to go, but Tauriel's glare seemed to insist that they would, whether they liked it or not. The youngest of them _did_ want to, and Katje was appalled that they would let him – if he was any more than seventeen, she'd be very surprised, and on top of it, he had far fewer weapons than the rest, and did not look comfortable carrying them.

She would guess what they were planning to do easily enough – Tauriel had said that her king was chasing the pair of them, and this group probably thought there was safety in numbers facing him. What was less clear was why they were all in such a hurry, and she wasn't going to ask while they were in the middle of preparing.

Tauriel checked her various knives, making certain they would be easy to draw. "Katje, we must leave for a time. You are safe here. Sigrid and Tilda – Bard's daughters – know some words in English. They will look after you while we are away. I do not know how long we are gone, but someone will come back to you."

Katje certainly hoped so. She was not easily daunted, but being stuck in a strange land where no one understood your language would daunt _anyone_. Right now her main hope was that the daughters understood the term for 'bath', because she felt totally disgusting. It had been two days since she'd had a shower at the Institute, and then another two – three, now – here. Normally she was fastidious as a cat, but now her hair was greasy, and she was pretty sure she was starting to smell. Since she only had the one set of clothes, she'd rather not make them stink like B.O. "Good luck," she said, and then, feeling that was not enough, "do not die."

Tauriel gave her a brief smile. "We will try not to."

* * *

Arandur was trying not to panic, and surprisingly, he was actually succeeding somewhat – mostly because he was trying to figure out how in Eru's name Thranduil had made it into the city. It hadn't been through the way Beleg and Sadronniel had come; they'd stationed guards on that segment of the wall, as well as everywhere else.

The fact that Lorna's room hadn't been utterly torn apart at least meant there hadn't been a protracted fight. Thranduil had probably snuck in, drugged her, and snuck out again, leaving no one – including her – any the wiser. Eventually, however, she would wake, and then there might be bloodshed.

As Arandur was useless as a tracker, he followed Tauriel. It was doubtful that Thranduil would follow the direct route back to the Woodland Realm – he'd know that he would be pursued, and even the elk had to rest at times. At least its footprints were unmistakable, and it would have to travel through open snow at some point.

The thought of facing the king in open combat wasn't to be borne, so Arandur didn't think of it. His military training was rudimentary at best, and he hadn't practiced in a century, so it was unlikely the others would even _allow_ him to fight. He could, however, hustle Lorna to safety, assuming she wasn't determined to kill Thranduil herself. After being abducted from her own room, he wouldn't put it past her – nor would he blame her.

* * *

Lorna's return to consciousness was a gradual, grudging thing, but her bladder was insistent and would not be ignored.

At first she had no idea where she was. She was warm except for her face, which burned from the icy air, the skin feeling tight and dry. Memory prodded her brain with a stick, and when she opened her eyes, she swore. The sky was darkening above her, the sunset rose and gold on the snow, and she was sitting on the biggest deer/elk/what-the-hell-ever that she had ever seen in her life.

A voice came from behind her. "How, exactly, would one fornicate with a duck? I would think it terribly uncomfortable for the person _and_ the duck."

_Thranduil_. Dammit. She wanted to elbow him in the ribs, but by now she knew that it would do no good whatsoever. "Go screw a goat," she growled. What would happen if she threw herself off the elk-thing? The snow would probably break her fall, right? Her head felt remarkably clear, and didn't ache at all, though she could feel the remains of a nosebleed. Gross.

"Again, I question the anatomical feasibility of such an action," he said gravely. Since when the hell had Thranduil developed a sense of humor? Somehow, it was even creepier than his crazy. She really, really didn't like having him behind her, either: for all he said he didn't want to kill her, it would be all too easy for him to snap her neck, and it made her shoulder blades itch.

"I'm sure someone's tried it somewhere. Let me off this thing, will you?" By this point, her bladder was threatening outright mutiny.

He sighed. "Lorna, we are much too far from anyone for you to try running away."

"I don't need to run away, I need to pee. Now let me off or I'll probably whiz on your elk." She paused. "You didn't happen to grab a stack of white napkins before we you hauled me off like a sack of potatoes, did you?"

Thranduil halted the elk, dismounting with a grace she kind of hated him for. "No," he said. "Why?"

She groaned. "Then I hope you have a handkerchief. I'm on the rag, and I need a new rag."

He had learned enough English from her to know exactly what she meant. His mask-like expression was difficult for her to read, but she could tell he was suddenly feeling rather awkward. It was all she could do not to laugh; apparently some things were difficult for males to deal with, no matter what their species.

He fished a handkerchief out of some pocket or other, handing it to her before he helped her off the elk. Of course she landed in snow that came up well over her knees, but whatever. At least there were plenty of shrubs she could go behind, even if getting there was a hassle. Peeing in the snow had been bad enough on the way to Dale – the addition of this…unpleasantness…only made it worse. There was no way in hell she was stuffing the soiled rag in her pocket, either – she buried it in the snow, figuring some animal could later use it to build a somewhat disgusting nest.

Washing her hands – so to speak – in the snow left her fingers numb, and she wished Thranduil had been smart enough to bring her gloves. She had yet to see an Elf need gloves, so it probably hadn't occurred to him.

Unfortunately, he was right about her inability to run away. Even if she hadn't had to wade through the snow, she had no idea where the hell she was. He hadn't brain-raped her yet, which she hoped meant he was smart enough to know that he'd kill her if he did. But if she couldn't run, what _could_ she do?

She didn't know, but she was pretty sure if she didn't head back soon, he'd come looking for her, which, yeah, _no_. So she flailed her way through the snow, following the tracks she'd made. Somehow, that didn't make it easier.

Thranduil, amusingly, looked a trace more awkward, and she fought a grin. _Good._ It took a hell of a lot more than telling a bloke she was about to pee on his ride to make Lorna feel uncomfortable, but the more she could unsettle him, the better.

"I hope you've got more've those," she called, still floundering her way along. "Given that it's a few days' trip and all."

He – Christ, was he _blushing_? It could just be a trick of the light, but even the possibility that it wasn't almost made her cackle. Apparently inhabiting her mind was not the same thing as hearing the bluntness in her head spoken aloud. If _that_ made him uncomfortable, he was really, really going to regret kidnapping her by the time they reached Mirkwood.

* * *

The elk-tracks were so clear that Tauriel wondered if Thranduil _wanted_ them to follow him.

It made a certain amount of sense. If he could lure them back to the Woodland Realm, he could imprison them at his leisure. That thought led her to send Elrohir and Arandur back to Dale.

"Your father needs to know of this," she said. "Arandur, you are the only one among us who witnessed Thranduil's actions. You must tell Lord Elrond exactly what happened. I know that you can go nowhere until spring, but as soon as the snows thaw, ride as hard as you can. Lord Elrohir, I have no fear for your brother – Thranduil might be mad, but I do not think even now that he would dare imprison a son of Elrond."

"Elladan would annoy him to death if he tried," Elrohir said. "Of that I have no doubt."

Arandur looked torn, but Tauriel outranked him. In the end she did not have to fight him for it, for she pointed out that there was another Edain in need of his skills with English, and that more might well turn up. If any of them were dangerous, he may well be the only one who would know.

That seemed to placate him. Everyone wanted to feel needed, and Arandur really was the only one who could do this. He might not be fluent in English, but he spoke it better than the rest of them, and he alone could tell Lord Elrond exactly what had happened to start this nightmare to begin with.

So he and Elrohir turned back, and the rest of them followed the blatantly obvious tracks.

Tauriel did not look forward to being imprisoned, but maybe she would be fortunate and Thranduil would merely banish her. Again. She would go to Imladris if he did, and it was likely she would not be the only one. She suspected that only the weather had kept far more from leaving already. Thranduil had broken the trust of many, and there would likely be no going back. Tauriel would certainly never trust him again; this time, banishment would be a blessing, not a punishment. She could only hope Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel would be prepared to handle a sudden influx of refugees. Explaining _why_ was also not a thing she contemplated with anticipation.

* * *

One would think, Thranduil thought, that going through Lorna's memories so often would have rendered him unable to be discomfited by her blunt vulgarity, but it had not. _She_, from all he had seen, was all but incapable of embarrassment, as she had just demonstrated. She seemed quite smug about it, too.

Though he would not look into her mind again, having it near lifted quite a bit of the fog. Looking down at the crown of her head, especially once they were atop the elk again, made him think of the zombie movies she was so fond of. He had a sudden mental image of actually eating her brain, and wondered, for the first time, how much of a detriment her memories were to him.

Night fell as they moved on, the elk walking at a leisurely pace – any pursuers would have to halt until the moon rose, for they would be unable to follow his trail in the dark. Lorna was being surprisingly placid, which made him deeply suspicious – they would not be able to stop long themselves, for he did not trust her not to try to run off, even though she had to know she'd freeze to death. If she was still convinced he would sift through her mind at the first opportunity, it was the sort of thing she would do, even knowing the fatal consequences.

When they reached the river, she started humming – a faint, distinctly irritating tune that Thranduil did not doubt was calculated to annoy him. She continued as the moon rose, and the only reason that he did not demand she stop was because he knew that was exactly what she wanted. If he did let her know she was aggravating him, she would never cease. Her hands were buried in the elk's fur for warmth, and he realized eventually that she was _braiding_ it.

She must have decided that her humming wasn't having enough effect, for she started to sing, almost under her breath: "This is the song that never ends, it goes on and on my friends. Some people started singing it, not knowing what it was, and they'll continue singing it forever just because this is the song that never ends-"

Thranduil fought a groan. Even Legolas had not been this annoying as a child. "Go to sleep, Lorna. I know you must be tired."

"Can't," she said. "I'll freeze to death."

Since she couldn't see him, he rolled his eyes. He, King of the Woodland Realm, had been reduced to eye-rolling. Now that he'd found Lorna, he was beginning to wonder why he'd wanted to so badly. On this frigid night, even the secrets of her mind did not seem worth it.

He knew that she disliked being touched almost as much as he did, but it was possible that she was right, so he wrapped his heavy fur cloak around her, too. "Hush," he said, before she could protest. "I will not kill you in your sleep," he paused, dredging up one of her memories, "so go the fuck to sleep."

Lorna burst out laughing so hard that she almost fell off the elk. "Oh, you got _that_, did you?" She didn't sound at all angry at the reminder of all he had taken, but that was likely because she was too amused. Doubtless she'd be furious later, when the amusement wore off.

"I cannot believe you took the time to memorize the entire thing," he said dryly

"Of course I did, it's brilliant," she said. "You're doing it wrong, though." She cleared her throat, dropped her voice an octave, and attempted (badly) to mimic the man who had read the poem:

"The cats nestle close to their kittens,  
The lambs have laid down with the sheep.  
You're cozy and warm in your bed, my dear.  
Please go the fuck to sleep."

That didn't quite earn an eye-roll, but it was close. "Everyone believes I have gone mad, though none will dare say it to my face," he said. "I believe that is your fault."

"_Duh_," she said. "I could've told you that. I'm cursed, remember?"

"So you say. And yet none in your world seem to know what cursed you, or how, or why."

"If anybody does, they're not telling." She shivered, and it couldn't be from cold. "You'd best hope too many've them don't turn up here. You saw the doctor, I take it."

Thranduil didn't shudder, but it was only because of centuries of training. Yes, that had – unfortunately – been one of the memories he had picked up. Never in all his life had he known a feeling so violating – it had almost made him ill. Should that doctor somehow come to Middle-Earth, he could likely do horrendous damage among the mortal populations; Lorna did not have the experience to understand how truly powerful the man was. Even younger Elves might not be safe from him.

Lorna herself had immense potential she was not aware of, but Thranduil was not going to be the one to tell her so. He knew that, however amiable she seemed now, she would try to exact revenge on him later, and he was hardly going to hand her the tools with which to do so.

She yawned, and he said again, "Go to sleep, Lorna. I will not let you fall."

"You make a crap pillow," she grumbled. "You're bony."

"I am not _bony_," he said, irrationally offended.

She jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow. "See," she said. "Bony."

"Oh, go to sleep. Your company is much more pleasant when you do not speak."

"Just for that, I'm drooling on you. It will freeze, and it will be disgusting, and you'll never get it out of your fancy cloak."

* * *

Well, if Lorna can't escape and survive, she can at least try to annoy the rest of Thranduil's sanity away.

The title, somewhat fittingly, means "Revenge" in Irish.

Thank you guys so much for reviewing. :) It's nice to know I'm doing it right.


	17. Lucht Siúil

In which Arandur and Elrohir get a surprise, Lorna continues to irritate Thranduil just because she can, and Bard tries to figure out just what the hell he's going to tell everyone now that Thranduil was so publicly creepy.

* * *

Sigrid and Tilda were both lovely girls, and they wanted so much to be helpful, but thanks to the language barrier, that was somewhat difficult.

A game of charades finally earned Katje a bath, in a tub so small that she stood in it and sponge-bathed. It took her a full fifteen minutes to wash her hair, and then she was freezing, but it felt wonderful to be _clean_. Sigrid brought her toast and tea, and she went to luxuriate beside the downstairs fire.

The elderly man she'd seen earlier was still in his seat, watching the dancing flames. He looked extremely familiar, impossible though that was, as though she had met him, or at least seen his picture. The bushy beard and pointy hat screamed 'wizard', but was he really? Katje was savvy enough to realize that Earth logic – and stereotypes – might not apply here.

"Sit down, my dear," he said – in English, thank God. Katje was far from fluent in it, but neither were Tauriel or the other woman she'd spoken to. Hopefully this man understood enough.

She sat in the other armchair, angling it a little so her hair would dry faster. "Why am I here?" she asked. "And how?"

The old man's expression somehow managed to be grave and curious at the same time. "I do not know," he said, producing a pipe from some pocket of his robes, "but I mean to find out. Tell me of this place you came from." He lit the pipe, and the smoke was fragrant, like sandalwood rather than the harsh scent of tobacco.

Katje wrapped her arms around her middle, staring into the fire. She didn't know if she knew enough English to truly convey the horror of the Institute. "It is…it is like prison and hospital. Hundreds of cursed, maybe thousands. I do know how -" she groped for the word "—size? I do not know size of it. There is doctor, and his name is Von Ratched. He sees minds, and takes from them. He try to control my curse." That had been the most painful thing she had ever endured – he had played her like a marionette, hunting for the source of her curse, the switch that would allow him to use it as he saw fit. He hadn't found it, though not for want of agonizing trying. "I turn things into other things, but never what I want. He try to change that."

She paused, and shivered. "What if he come here, too?" she whispered.

The old man puffed on his pipe, deep sympathy in his eyes. "You are quite safe here," he said. "No mortal sorcerer, however powerful, is any match for me."

Katje's brow furrowed. "Mortal?"

"Lorna did not mention that there were no wizards in your world," he said, "though I should not be surprised. My name is Gandalf – Gandalf the Grey. However powerful your doctor may be, should he come here, he will find himself severely outmatched by a great many people."

Gandalf…where had she heard that name? She _had_ heard it, she knew it, but the source escaped her. His words were certainly a relief, at least. "Many?"

"All Elves possess the ability to read minds, though it only manifests with age. Some that Lorna met are so powerful that their very presence nearly killed her."

While Katje felt sorry for this Lorna, that was heartening. "I think I want to live with Elves," she said. "Whatever they are."

* * *

Sunrise sent golden rays through the tree-canopy, gilding the delicate, snow-covered branches. The air was utterly still, but not silent; in the distance, a woman's voice could be heard, singing:

_"I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves_  
_It pisses people off but it's really quite absurd_  
_How this song gets on everybody's nerves_  
_And this is how it goes."_

A male voice, laced with exasperation and warning in equal measure, cut her off. "_Lorna_."

"What, you want another rendition of 'It's a Small World After All'?"

There came the sound of someone digging through a leather satchel. "Eat this."

"What is it?"

"Food."

"Not helpful."

"It is a type of waybread. Eat it and shut up."

"You really think I can't sing with my mouth full?"

"You truly are an aggravating creature."

"I'm sorry, but who kidnapped who again?"

"Believe me, I am heartily regretting it.

"You'll regret it a whole lot more before we get to Mirkwood."

A sigh. "Of that I am sure."

* * *

Tauriel and her squadron ran on and on, through the night and dawn and well into the sunrise. Unfortunately, the trail abruptly went cold.

They stood and stared at the sudden lack of footprints, and she wondered how in Eru's name Thranduil had done it. Up until now this had been a drastic shortcut that she had not known about, but they no longer knew where it led.

"Do we continue going straight, Captain?" Menelwen asked.

Tauriel considered, kicking at the last of the tracks and smudging them with her boot. "No," she said. "The river is south. We have covered so much ground that we can afford to lose a little as well." The elk gave him the advantage of speed, but its huge antlers meant moving through dense forests impossible.

She glanced north. The eastern sky was clear, but even through the trees she could see dark clouds gathering on the northern horizon. There would be another snowstorm by nightfall, and she was uncertain if they could reach the Woodland Realm in time. Her only hope was that if they could not, perhaps Thranduil wouldn't be able to, either.

"Keep moving," she ordered.

* * *

Arandur was deeply depressed, and even Elrohir could not cheer him up.

"I had thought the outside world wonderful," he said, looking at the sunrise without really seeing it. "There was so much to be gained that I did not truly think about the fact that nearly all I have spoken to in it are mortal. I've grown so fond of Lorna and the people of Dale, and one day they will all die, and I shall never see them again."

"I know," Elrohir said. "My father's doors are open to any travelers who can find them, and my brother and I have befriended and lost many mortals. My father says that Eru could not be so cruel as to sunder us all forever, and I choose to believe that. All things must come to an end eventually, and then perhaps we can find one another again."

It was a lovely thought, but Arandur could not yet believe it himself. Despair was not a thing so easily worked through. This Katje woman needed his aid, but he would not make the mistake of befriending her, too. He would be kind to her, because she was lost and alone in a strange place, but he could go no further than that.

His ruminations were broken by the sound of something floundering through the snow, accompanied by a great deal of cursing – in English.

What.

It was a man's voice, harsh and gravelly, and its owner could possibly rival Lorna when it came to creative profanity. Arandur and Elrohir detoured, following the sound.

It was indeed a mortal man, somewhat older than both Lorna and Katje. His hair was a wild thatch of brown and iron grey, his face seamed with age and weather, and he looked ready to strangle someone. He wore some kind of soft grey trousers and a tunic of the same material, with slippers rather than shoes. He looked up, and paused when he saw them.

"Where the fuck am I?"

Arandur glanced at Elrohir. Bard wasn't just going to kill them, he was going to set them on fire.

* * *

Lorna was so aggravating while speaking (and singing) that Thranduil should have been pleased when she fell silent, but he was not. Her irritating songs had ceased because her nose began bleeding – only slightly at first, but it rapidly became worryingly heavy.

He paused long enough to unwrap a cheese that had been done up in cheesecloth, and gave her the cloth in an effort to staunch the blood, to no effect. Even in the waning light, he could see that her face had gone grey.

Since he had not anticipated finding her ill, he had brought no healing herbs with him. There was nothing he could do save tilt her head back and let her bleed all over his sleeve, hoping she would not choke. She stared up at the twilit sky, rarely blinking, growing less responsive by the minute.

"Sing one of your foolish songs," he ordered, hoping that speech would keep her conscious.

"I thought you wanted me to shut up," she said, slurring a little as her eyes tracked to him, though he was uncertain she truly saw him.

"That was before I worried that your brain would leak out through your nose."

She rolled her eyes, which was likely a good sign. If she could muster the energy to be annoyed, she was not yet at death's door. "Thranduil, you are shite at being reassuring. I've run out've obnoxious songs."

"Then recite that charming poem. Just do not go to sleep while you do it."

"Don't wanna," she said, petulant as a child. "I'm tired."

"If you sleep, you may die. If you try to sleep, I will wash your face with snow."

She glared at him, trying to shift the cheesecloth to a spot not soaked with blood. "You're a twat."

"And you are still awake, therefore I win," he said dryly, but he was trying to conceal his concern. It was so cold that her impromptu handkerchief was freezing; he did not know just how much blood she had lost, but in weather this frigid, it would not need to be over-much for the cold to kill her. Much as he did not wish to stop, they needed shelter and a fire. He had enough of an advantage of distance that they could afford to rest for a time, but it could not be too long – clouds crept relentlessly from the north, and they had to reach the Woodland Realm before the snow found them.

There was a copse of beech trees half a mile ahead, and Thranduil steered the elk toward it. Periodically he would shake Lorna to keep her awake, often earning himself an elbow to the solar plexus for his troubles, as well as a string of rather creative Irish invective.

When they reached the trees, he had the elk kneel so that he could leave Lorna to lie on its back, wrapped up in (and bleeding on) his fur cloak. Though Elves did not suffer from cold as mortals did, they could feel it, and he certainly felt it now, as he collected enough wood for a small fire. At least much of it was dry, and kindled easily, soon crackling and blazing merrily. The elk shook its head and snorted, seemingly pleased by the heat.

Lorna had to still be marginally awake, because she made a vague attempt to scratch behind its ears. Her fingers were tinted blue, which even Thranduil knew was a bad sign in an Edain.

She didn't resist when he picked her up, and while she swore, he suspected it was automatic reflex. Even now her nose bled, and he noticed with concern and distaste that it had left a larger stain than he had thought on his cloak.

"You're still goddamn bony," she grumbled, when he settled her next to the fire with his cloak around them both.

"I am not," he said, realizing too late how childish he sounded. Taking so much of her mind really _had_ had a detrimental effect on him.

And yet, even now, he wanted more. She was so near to unconsciousness that she would likely never know if he took anything else – but he would. Should he do that, he would be every bit the monster she considered him to be.

Even as he thought this, however, his right hand hovered over her face. Her eyes were closed; perhaps she was asleep already. The slightest brush should not do her any more harm than she had already suffered.

Her left eye cracked open. "Hoe, don't do it," she warned. "Your throat's awfully close to my teeth. You want to keep it in one piece, put that hand away."

A brief flicker of rage stabbed through Thranduil – mostly at the fact that he had been caught. He had an equally brief urge to snap her neck, but it too passed when she opened her other eye. She wiped her nose again with the sodden cloth, then flicked it into the fire with a grimace. Her odd green gaze met his steadily. "You might be unpredictable to most people," she said, "but not to me. You've got some've me in your head, but I've got some've you in mine. You can't fool me, Thranduil. Not anymore."

The thought was rather horrifying, and for the first time, he thought he understood how she felt. Her mastery of Sindarin had told him there must have been some mutual transference, but he had not stopped to consider how much might have been transferred.

"How much is 'some'?" he asked, uncertain he wanted the answer. He wiped her nose on a clean patch of his cloak, wondering if it would ever stop bleeding, or if she was going to die here.

"Probably not as much as you've got of me, since you've got so many more memories than I do. Why do you see things the way you do?"

It took him a moment to realize what she meant. "All Elves who have seen the light of Valinor can see the mortal world and the spirit world," he said. "I had not imagined what it would be like to only see one, until I borrowed your memories."

Lorna arched an eyebrow. "Borrowed?" she said. "The Americans have got a saying: call a spade a spade. You stole it all, and don't insult me by trying to claim otherwise."

He sighed. "Very well, I stole them, and I have not done anything good with them. Nothing I have attempted has succeeded." He wiped her nose again, since she seemed either to not notice or not care that it was still bleeding. Her face was ashy, her lips pale, and if this did not stop soon, he did not know what to do.

"Your non-expression looks worried," she observed, grimacing when the blood touched her lips. "Thranduil, am I gonna die here?" Eru, she sounded so very young.

"I do not know," he said, feeling there was no point in lying to her. "I will try to keep you alive, but I do not know if I can."

It was not what she needed to hear, but it was the truth. All her life she had known people who she swore to look after, promising that she would not allow anything bad to happen to them, but no one had ever said that to her. And each time, life had seen her foresworn – her brother, her friend Kevin, her husband, who had died so horribly in front of her.

_Why must I owe you so much?_ A dark part of Thranduil wanted to let her die, so that he need not endure those unearthly eyes any longer. There was little enough light in them as it was.

But he did owe her, and she did not deserve to die in the snow, with only the person who had inadvertently killed her for company. "Lorna, you are not going to like what I must do," he said, "but it may be the only way I can save your life. I will not go into your mind, but your fëa – your soul – is fading. If I can anchor it, perhaps your body will try to heal more rapidly on its own, but this will hurt. Perhaps quite a bit."

"Because I've just felt bloody _wonderful_ so far," she sighed. "Fine. But if it hurts to much, I can't promise I won't throw up on you."

It was a reassuringly _Lorna_ thing to say. "Try not to," he said. "You need this cloak as much as I do. Now hold still."

* * *

Arandur was beginning to believe that Lorna's vulgarity was not unusual for her world. Their new Edain had a positive genius for it.

He had _not_ wanted to ride to Dale on anyone's back, but as he had no boots, he also had no choice. So Arandur carried Elrohir's pack, and Elrohir carried the Edain.

The man showed some truly disturbing signs of torture. His hands were all but ruined, the skin twisted and ridged with scars – but the wounds had to be decades old. He had not acquired them in the Institute he spoke of.

Not that he said much, of it or anything else. He was a grim, quite person, his faded blue eyes appraising each detail of their surroundings like a warrior. Arandur did not know the English word for 'warrior', so he did not ask, but he desperately wanted to.

"What is your name?" he asked eventually, when they were not far from Dale.

"Dunno," the man said. "Gone by 'Geezer' as far back as I can remember."

"You do not know your own name?" Elrohir asked.

"Forgot it," Geezer said, sounding rather defensive. "It and a lotta other things."

"You are cursed, aren't you?" Arandur asked. "We have two others like you here – one has been here months, the other only a few days." There had to be something significant about the fact that they had all appeared relatively near one another.

Geezer said nothing to that, and they trudged on to Dale, while the sun sank and dark clouds rolled south. Tauriel's patrol would be caught out in whatever storm they brought, and unless Thranduil had found shelter somewhere, he and Lorna would, too. Arandur could not let himself think about it, or he would go mad with worry.

The gate-guard, now well used to seeing Elves and strangers wandering in and out of the city, barely glanced up before letting them through. Bard still had said nothing official about his guests, although now that Thranduil had so publicly been and gone, he wouldn't be able to get away with that for much longer. And if word of it hadn't yet got to Dain, it soon would. The madness of King Thranduil would be common knowledge by the end of the next day.

The thought made Arandur wince, but it was too late to do anything about it now. As Lorna would say, the ball was rolling, and he had no idea yet how to control its descent. Unfortunately, as the sole remaining representative of the Woodland Realm, he was likely going to have to figure it out very quickly.

He watched Geezer assess the city, as the man assessed everything. Thankfully, most of the people were inside already, but a few passers-by stopped and stared. Poor Bard was going to have his hands full come morning.

When they reached Bard's house, they found the family, plus Katje and Gandalf, were still eating dinner. When Bard caught sight of them, Arandur thought the poor man was about to have a stroke, but anything he might have said was forestalled by the sudden clatter of Katje's fork as it hit the floor. Her blue eyes were round as coins.

"_Geezer?_" she said. "When did you get here?"

"Oh, 'bout five hours ago. Everybody thought you'd escaped, lass.

Wait, they _knew_ each other? What were the odds of that? Geezer must truly be cursed, then.

Katje made a face. "I did," she said. "Just…not on purpose. One night I am in my room, and then I am halfway up a tree." She seemed, Arandur noted, to have great difficulty with the past tense.

Geezer shivered, and headed to the fire after a brief nod to Bard. "We were all wondering how you'd done it. Staff tried to keep it quiet, but they were all too obviously confused for it to be Von Ratched's doing. I was in the middle of the rec room, so they'll have a helluva time explaining _that_ away." He sounded like he relished the thought.

Bard rose, and practically dragged Arandur to the little-used parlor. He looked about two seconds away from snapping entirely. "How many more of these people will you bring me?" he demanded, but quietly.

Arandur didn't wince, but only because he was an Elf. "However many we find," he said. "I promise that Lord Elrohir and I will take them to Imladris as soon as we are able." He didn't mention that it was highly likely that more would turn up here, after the first group was gone. Bard could figure that out in his own time.

Bard pinched the bridge of his nose. "I would never turn away a stranger in need," he said, "but I cannot afford to keep feeding so many newcomers."

"Lord Elrohir and I will hunt tomorrow," Arandur said, by which he meant that Elrohir would hunt, and Arandur would try not to get in the way.

That seemed to mollify Bard, though he scrubbed his hand over his face. "What in Eru's name am I to tell Dain?"

"I will let you know when I have any idea at all," Arandur sighed. "If more of the cursed arrive, we may have to just tell him the truth. Dain is hotheaded, but he would not be king if he was a fool."

Now it was Bard who sighed. "He can no more afford war than I, for all his army is larger, but you do not understand how much he hates your king. The rest of your people he seems to have no quarrel with, but I think he only tolerates Thranduil out of debt and necessity."

Arandur hoped he was wrong, but Bard knew the Dwarf-king far better than he did. "All we can do for now is try to make sure it will not come to that," he said. Thanks to the sheer disparity between the force of numbers, Dain would almost certainly lose, but it had only been five years since all of this land had been riven by battle, and Arandur doubted there were many who would wish to risk such destruction again. Thranduil had not led so much as a company against Dale, and though he had stolen one of its newer citizens, he had not harmed anyone while doing so. Arandur could only hope that that would keep Dain from regarding it as a covert declaration of war.

* * *

Legolas had much practice of reading his father's often inscrutable expressions, but next to the Lady Galadriel, his father seemed positively animated. She was concentrating intently on something, but he had no idea if she was calm or worried or curious. Her blue, starlit eyes gave nothing away.

The reach of her gift was wide, and they were near enough to the Woodland Realm that perhaps she had already found his father. If she had, Legolas knew that she would only tell him if she thought he needed to know.

Fortunately, the weather had been smiling on them for the last two days; unfortunately, it looked likely to frown on them again very soon. They could not push on any more quickly than they were already going, so he prayed that the coming storm would not force them to halt entirely. They had lost far too much time already.

* * *

So, I did actually write the scene where Lorna's fëa gets 'anchored', but it was waaaay too horrifying to include. Her actual canon is quite gory in places, but I'm trying to keep this story on the nearer side of somewhat lighter-hearted, with bits of drama. (Seriously, over the course of her five books, she gets shot, stabbed, and loses her left eye. In this fic, she's had it damn easy.) Incidentally, Geezer is the one who was in the car with her, just before she crash-landed in Mirkwood.

Title means "Travelers" in Irish.


	18. Éalú

In which Dain finally gets some answers (and offers a little help), Geezer figures out just where he and Katje actually are (and tries to work out if it's real or not), and Thranduil, though he does not yet realize it, gains a very big problem.

* * *

When Lorna eventually woke, it was by the gentle rocking of the elk's footsteps. Her nose was dry, and while her head hurt, it was a different sort of pain, a lingering holdover from what Thranduil had called fëa-anchoring. She was very warm, curled up in a little ball under Thranduil's cloak, which acted much like a tent. For once she felt as childlike as she no doubt looked, because dear sweet Christ, that had hurt worse than anything she'd ever experienced – and that was really, really saying something. The fact that she was still alive must mean it had worked, but it had temporarily burned away all the protective mental hardness she'd developed as an adult.

Eventually she opened her eyes, peeking out through the gap in the fur. It was snowing – tiny, dry flakes, so many that it was difficult for her to make out the trees ahead. It was an odd thing, really; she couldn't hear the snow fall, but part of her brain seemed to insist that she could. The clouds overhead were dark and heavy, but at least there was no wind – and she noticed with some amusement that the elk's great antlers were powdered over with white.

Lorna swallowed, wincing at the pain in her throat. "You know, on balance, if it comes down to that again or dying, I'll pick death." Her voice was so hoarse she could barely speak.

"I did warn you," Thranduil said, but there was a very small measure of sympathy in his voice, which was something of a miracle.

She sighed. "That you did." After a pause, she asked the question she was not sure she wanted an answer to – especially since she was now _really_ unable to run away. "What happens when we get to the halls?"

"You go to the healing wards." He too paused, and when he spoke again, his voice held an edge of amusement. "We can rebuild you. We have the technology."

She burst out laughing, unable to help it. Oh, she ought to be pissed at the reminder that he'd rooted through her brain, but she just didn't have the energy. "Can you really make me better, stronger, faster?"

He was quiet a moment. "It is possible that I can make you stronger, in one way at least," he said. "Or rather, aid you in accessing your own strength. I believe you have the power to prevent anyone else doing what I did, if you are taught."

She pushed the edge of the cloak open enough to look at him. As always, his face was nearly impossible to read. "Are you just saying that for an excuse to get in my head again?"

Thranduil winced, so imperceptibly that there was a possibility she'd imagined it. "I cannot go into your mind again, Lorna," he said. "I dare not, even when you are healed. That is why you must learn to defend yourself – should someone else try it, it could well kill you."

It sounded good on metaphorical paper, but Lorna still didn't trust Thranduil as far as she could throw him, and probably never would. "I won't need it if I go to Rivendell," she said. "I doubt any've the Elves there would try mucking about in my brain."

He tensed, but she wasn't sorry she'd said it, and she wouldn't take it back. Sure, he was helping her now, but she wouldn't need his help if he hadn't interfered in the first place. Her bleeding brain might not be entirely his fault, but he sure as hell hadn't helped.

"And what if your doctor comes here?" he asked, finally looking down at him. "What if you face him again?"

Now she was the one who tensed. "That was a low blow."

"But a valid point."

It really was, dammit. "I'll think about it."

* * *

Bard was trying to write a speech, and failing.

His people needed an explanation, but not one that would make them panic. Bad enough that Thranduil had turned up and blatantly threatened him – he now had a mysterious man and woman staying with him, as well as the wizard and two remaining Elves. At least that pair had made good on Arandur's promise to go hunting, but that still left him with Gandalf and two people he couldn't communicate with directly. Two people from another world, who apparently knew each other.

If this kept up – and he had a sinking feeling that it would – he needed to put some sort of protocol in place to deal with them. The benign ones he could ship off to Lord Elrond, assuming they were willing to make such a journey, but what in Eru's name would he do if a malicious one turned up? Gandalf had explained next to nothing about the curses, but Bard hadn't been born yesterday. He knew that Lorna's headaches came from her ability to read minds, whether she wanted to or not; while he didn't yet know what curses these two had, he did not doubt for a moment that they each had one.

He sighed, throwing down his quill. This was yet another aspect of being a ruler that he had no experience at dealing with: how much to tell his people, and what. Much as he did not want to, he needed to tell Dain before anyone else found out about it – though Dain himself likely already knew at least part of the story. His ravens weren't supposed to act as spies, but they often did anyway.

Bard stood, cracking his neck as he did. Dain really _did_ need to know, and it was not something he would trust to put in a note, which could be waylaid by anyone. At least it was snowing so hard that few would see him leave the city; on a clear day, there would have been an uproar. He did not relish the idea of riding to Erebor in a snowstorm, but better now than later, when he would have to face far too many inconvenient questions.

Sigrid and Tilda sat beside the fire, practicing with the Sindarin primers Arandur had made for them, while Katje and the man named Geezer sat deep in conversation in their own tongue. Mithrandir was nowhere to be seen; doubtless, Bard thought sourly, he was stirring up trouble. He only hoped it was not with Dain.

He wrapped himself in his heavy cloak, and the long woolen scarf Tilda had knit him the previous winter. It was _very_ long; she hadn't known where to stop, so he could wrap it around h is neck three times and still have plenty left over. It certainly made for a good muffler.

Katje and Geezer watched him leave, the latter especially closely. Bard knew that look: whatever Katje might be, Geezer was an old warrior. Despite the fact that he knew almost nothing else about the man, Bard found that oddly reassuring.

He plunged out into the snow, headed for the stables. No matter how this would turn out, it was not a conversation he looked forward to.

* * *

Dain had been given much food for thought, and he turned it over slowly in his mind.

He was not a scholar, or a diplomat – he had people like Balin to take care of the niceties. Dain was a warrior, and no matter how inadvisable it was, he still wanted that faithless woodland sprite's head.

Unfortunately, he had only a vague idea why Thranduil had come to Dale, or where he had gone, or why he had gone. That he had been hunting his own people took no great leap of logic, but he was not the sort to come so far and then give up so easily. For all Dain knew, Thranduil might well still be lurking somewhere near the city. And _that_, though he would never admit it, was a somewhat unsettling thought.

There was no way at all he could get away with killing the King of the Woodland Realm, unless Thranduil was mad enough to attack one of his people directly, and that did not look likely.

The thought was disheartening, and Dain was not sorry to have it interrupted. His door was open, and Balin rapped on the doorframe. He looked as though he could not decide whether to be curious or worried, and so had settled on both. "Bard is here to see you."

"It's about bloody time," Dain muttered. "Take him to the receiving room." There were few rooms in Erebor that catered to the bigger folk, but he had one that was furnished with plenty of chairs a tall man could comfortably sit on.

No fire had been laid on, since he had not been expecting company, but a page hastily kindled one while Dain broke out the beer. The room was small enough to be cozy but not cramped, so it would heat soon enough, and the big brocade chairs were newly dusted – not that Bard would have cared if they weren't. The Lord of Dale was refreshingly unaffected by his position, a trait which Dain appreciated enough to ignore his occasional foibles. Bard dealt in practicalities, without guile or artifice. No doubt it drove Thranduil mad, which made it all the better.

When Balin showed Bard in, the poor man looked like he would rather be anywhere else. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his face was pinched and pale.

"I am afraid I have ill news, King Dain," he said, sitting in an armchair when he was directed to.

Dain poured him a large mug of beer. "If it's about the Elves' mad king, I already know," he said.

Bard sighed as he took the mug, and downed an impressively large gulp. "You do not know all of it. It may be that you will find strange men or women near the mountain," he said. "They will not speak Westron, and they will likely be improperly dressed for the cold. Should you, send a messenger to Dale, and someone will collect them."

Dain's eyes narrowed. "D'ye mean more like Lorna?"

Bard paused. "How much do you know about Lorna?" he asked carefully.

"That she's cursed, in some manner, and cannae be around too many minds at once. Will these others be like her?"

Bard took another gulp. "Some may be cursed, in one fashion or another. Some may be ordinary. I have not seen enough of them to be sure. I cannot tell you to keep this from your council, but I would count it a great boon if this could remain between us for a time. I have two of them in my house, which is not a fact I will be able to conceal for long." He paused, clearly debating with himself. "Thranduil was hunting his people for desertion, but Lorna for her curse. If he finds out I have more of her kind near, I fear he may come back for them."

"And ye fear what he will do to ye, if you ye don't hand them over." There was no judgment in Dain's voice; Bard had more cause to fear than he did.

"I do," Bard admitted. "He ran off with Lorna already, who was very ill. I doubt she'll survive the journey back to Mirkwood – he might well come back to Dale, hoping we have more."

He had – no. _No_. Dain had rather liked the odd little lass, for her Dwarven capacity for drink and her numerous drinking songs. Though that the forest fairy might have killed her out of sheer negligence was not to be borne. Dain had always known Thranduil was a selfish sort of bastard, and this was one more thing to prove him right.

"Bring them here," he said. "And the wizard; I know he's still skulking around yer city. Thranduil might have some secret way into Dale, but he'll not fine one into Erebor."

* * *

The heat of the fire was a blessing to Geezer's bones. For the first time since well before the Institute, he felt something like safe.

So he was here – wherever _here_ was – and Katje. Whatever brought them had better grab Ratiri real quick, or Von Ratched might straight-up murder him out of frustration. The three of them had been as close as anyone could be in that hellhole.

He'd wondered what would happen of Von Ratched himself showed up, but Katje had assured him they were protected by the old man, who was a wizard – a wizard named Gandalf.

_That_ made Geezer sit up straight. There were massive holes in his memory, but he still remembered reading _The Lord of the Rings_ at some point in his life. He didn't want to warn Katje about it while the old man was still in the room, though, so he kept silent. Somehow, they were being played, but he wasn't going to show his own hand until he had something worth showing.

* * *

The heavy snow had all but obliterated any hope of finding Thranduil's tracks again, so Tauriel and her group were reduced to racing flat-out for the halls, on the very slim chance that they could cut Thranduil off.

What they were to do if they did, she had no idea. Fighting him would be madness, even if Lorna was in any condition to help. Should she manage to kick – or bite – her way free, it would be easy enough to run off with her, but the success or failure of that would depend on where they were. If they found the pair near a heavily forested area, they could easily flee, but on more open ground, Thranduil could simply run them down. While Tauriel would like to think her King was not yet so far gone as to actually kinslay his own people, she could not be certain, and it was not a risk she was willing to take.

She also, though she hated to do it, gave orders to be on the lookout for Lorna's corpse. If the woman did somehow manage to escape – and Tauriel would not entirely put it past her – she would not last long in this weather. Should she die near Thranduil, he would likely take her back to the Woodland Realm anyway, and possibly do unspeakable things to her brain with knives.

The snow, unfortunately, would make finding anything difficult, if there was something to be found. Speed meant their search could not be thorough; if Lorna's body was somewhere out here, it was unlikely they would ever know where.

Thank Eru the other two were safe with Bard, but a terrible thought struck Tauriel: what if another had been found in the forest in her absence? Most of the guard knew a little English – they would know such a stranger for what they were, and if Thranduil were to return home to fresh prey, the entire cycle might start over again. Should that be the case, even Lady Galadriel might not be able to save Thranduil.

* * *

It had not taken long for Lorna to fall asleep again, still weary from her ordeal. Thranduil kept two fingers on her pulse, to assure himself that it was still beating. It was, strong and steady, and remained so even when he urged the elk on faster. Somewhat amusingly, though she didn't actually wake, she swore. He likely shouldn't be surprised, since according to her memory, her first word had been 'fuck'.

The snow fell even heavier, which meant they would not reach the Woodland Realm as swiftly as he had wished; the elk's eyes were keen, but snow could still bewilder them. When full darkness fell, they would have to stop – and night was fast descending.

He was sorely tempted to wake her, for when she slept, the urge to look into her mind grew stronger._ It would be so very easy_, the craving whispered to him, _and if she died, no one would ever know._

He hated that craving, and her, and himself. None of this was in any way Lorna's fault, but the dark part of him, the part that _wanted_ to kill her, blamed her nonetheless. The longer she slept, the harder subsuming it grew.

Even in her sleep, some primitive instinct must have sensed that, for she jabbed him with her elbow. "Need to pee," she said, her voice muffled by the fur. "And take care've…other stuff."

Oh, Eru, _this_ was not what he needed.

* * *

The man who claimed to be Gandalf eventually left, so Geezer all but dragged Katje into the next room over – it looked like some kind of rarely-used parlor, and it was freezing from the lack of a fire.

"What _is_ it?" she asked, looking at him like he'd lost his mind.

"This place – that old man, the one who calls himself Gandalf – it's not real. I think Von Ratched's fucking with us somehow."

Katje arched an eyebrow – how she kept them so well-manicured without tweezers, he had no idea. "Geezer, I disappear before you, yes? If all this place is some kind of Von Ratched…picture…we would have come at same time."

"Not necessarily. You know how strong he is – he coulda created this whole thing as some kinda experiment, and just be making all this up in our minds."

_Now_ she looked worried. "How can we know if he is not?"

Geezer thought about that. If this really was some experiment, Von Ratched would not want his lab rats truly injuring themselves. He scanned the dim room for something resembling a weapon, and found a small hatchet next to the fireplace.

"What are you _doing_?" Katje demanded, when he picked it up.

"If it hurts and I bleed, this is probably real." He took the blade and sliced it across the back of his hand, slowly and carefully.

Oh, it hurt all right – bled like a motherfucker, too. Von Ratched would know how to make shedding blood _look_ right, but Geezer doubted he knew what it _felt_ like. Right now it was too real to be an illusion, or so Geezer wanted to believe.

Katje called him a string of names in Dutch, ripping off a piece of her undershirt to bind his hand. "Are you happy now, you stupid man? Why do you think this is illusion in first place?"

"Because that old wizard is named Gandalf," he said, reassured by the pain even as Katje tied her bandage tighter than she needed to. "Lass, he's a character in a book. I didn't think he was real because he wasn't supposed to be real."

She gave him another arch of her brow. "Neither is magic," she said, "yet here we are, cursed."

She had a point. He didn't _like_ it, but that didn't change the fact that she had one.

"Okay, so if this is book, where are we?" she asked.

"Think one of the Elves said Dale. That's near the Lonely Mountain, where the Dwarves live."

"I do not suppose Elves or Dwarves have toothbrush, do they?" she asked. "My mouth feels like fuzz. Dead fuzz."

Geezer, who had gone without a toothbrush far too many times, tried not to laugh. For much of his remembered life he had been homeless, or close to it, but Katje was in no way prepared to live in this kind of world. Her _profession_, as she called it, had always kept her pretty damn comfortable, but if he was right (and he was pretty sure he was, those comforts didn't exist here. She was going to have a damn hard adjustment, but she was the most pragmatic person he had ever met, even at her young age. To him, twenty-three wasn't much more than a kid – but it would also make it easier for her to adapt. "Who knows, lass," he said. "They might."

She chewed on the inside of her cheek. "Geezer, what if your curse…show up? I do not know how wise it is for others to know yet."

"If it does, it does," he said grimly. "Not like either one of us can do anything about it. C'mon, lass – it's freezing in here."

Katje followed him back into the warm main room, where Gandalf – fucking _Gandalf_ – sat waiting for them, smoking his pipe.

"I have a proposition for you both," the wizard said. "I would like to move you."

"Move us where?" Katje asked.

"And _why_?" Geezer added, instantly suspicious.

"To Erebor, for your own safety. This city has been breached once already, by someone searching for one of you. He does not yet know that you are here, but he may well find out sooner or later. I would rest easier if I knew you were somewhere beyond his reach."

Geezer looked at Katje. He never trusted anyone, but where the kid went, he went. _Someone_ had to keep her out of trouble.

"Will there be toothbrush?" she asked hopefully.

* * *

Balin did not know what the world was coming to. He'd been ordered to air and warm two of the rooms normally used by visiting dignitaries of Men and Elves, to prepare for the arrival of two more like Lorna – and a warning that still more might turn up. He'd hoped the drag would be the last trouble they'd see for a long while, but of course they'd not be so lucky.

It grieved him to hear that Lorna herself was most likely dead. If she'd just stayed here while she was ill, that blasted Thranduil would never have found her – but then, with so many people around her, it might well have been worse. He hoped that neither of these newcomers had the same curse, or they'd not find their time here any joy.

* * *

Lorna slept so much that by the time they stopped for the night, she was wide awake.

Thranduil had found an actual cave to shelter in. The elk wouldn't fit, but the big beast hardly seemed to mind – and with a fur coat like that, she didn't wonder why.

It was nice to finally be out of the snow, without needing to use Thranduil's cloak as a tent. She sat so close to the fire that she was in danger of falling into it if she sneezed wrong, but it was so wonderfully _warm_. She'd not been cold at all on their trip, but it was nice to have a heat source that couldn't potentially smother her.

Thranduil himself was looking rather tired, which meant he had to be absolutely exhausted. She still wasn't sure how often Elves needed to sleep, but he looked about due for a nap. She hoped to Christ he'd take one.

Not that she could suggest he take one without making him horribly suspicious – all she could do was hope things naturally took their course. Until they did, she couldn't dare hope for anything, lest he sense it somehow.

So she ate some waybread and drank some water, calm as you please. When she'd finished, she hummed a little – a gentle, soothing tune, based on one of the lullabies Mam sang when she was small. Every mental and spiritual fiber of her being exuded one word – _sleep_. If he was tired enough, she might be able to shove him the rest of the way by sheer force of will.

Not that it looked likely to happen any time soon. He'd taken out a small stone and begun sharpening his sword – probably just for something to do. It certainly was a wicked-looking implement, and she'd bet that if she stood it upright, the hilt would reach halfway up her ribcage.

Could she use it? She'd only had one day of sword training with Elladan, and that had been with a short Dwarven practice-sword. Nevertheless, she was stealing that damn thing as soon as she had a chance, and hauling arse.

No matter what Thranduil said, she didn't trust a word of it. In non-Tolkien Earth lore, Elves were notorious liars and tricksters, and she wasn't going to buy what he so obviously wanted to sell.

Realistically, she'd die out there. Even if she'd been able to carry the giant pack of supplies and not fall over, she had no idea where the hell she was, other than two days away from civilization. Yeah, she'd die, but she was dying already, and she'd be damned if she'd let him heal her in Mirkwood just so he could paw through her brain again.

So she sat, and she hummed, and after what seemed like forever, the sword slipped out of Thranduil's hand when he went still. Since Elves slept with their damn eyes open, it was hard to tell if he was out or not, and Lorna waited patiently while the fire died down to embers.

She pondered taking his cloak for extra warmth, but it was too big, and it would only slow her down. As carefully and quietly as she could, she stuffed her pockets with waybread, then wrapped her own cloak around her. Thranduil didn't so much as twitch, not even when she took his sword – he had to be well and truly out.

The elk too was asleep, so she tiptoed past it and into the storm, pulling up her hood as she went. The sword really was too long, and she hadn't dared try to nick the scabbard; she'd have to be careful not to stumble in a snowdrift and cut herself in half.

Fuck Thranduil. Fuck him and his empty promises, his pretend sympathy. The only way he was ever getting his sticky fingers in her brain again would be if he found it frozen in her skull.

* * *

Whelp, Thranduil, now you've got a whole bunch of problems: your own soldiers chasing you, Lorna running off with your sword (and her tasty brain that you've been so good about leaving alone), and Dain now knowing everything. Oops.

Title means "Escape" in Irish.


	19. Méid atá le Feiceáil

In which Thranduil discovers he has a problem (and has to scramble to fix it), Galion drinks himself into a stupor and wakes to an unwanted guest, and Lorna is damn glad she stole Thranduil's sword.

A warning: there is a fairly violent battle with some wargs in this chapter.

* * *

Thranduil woke to the light of the pale, wintry sun on his face. How long had he been asleep? He certainly hadn't _intended_ to sleep, but his body had evidently disagreed.

He sat up, and found the elk watching him patiently at the mouth of the cave. When he reached for his fallen sword, however, he found it missing – it, Lorna, and what looked like half their food.

His blood ran cold. He shouldn't have been _surprised_ that the idiot woman would go hare off into a snowstorm at the first opportunity – she still didn't trust him, which he could not precisely blame her for.

The snowstorm, which would make her incredibly difficult to track. Logically she would try to go back the way they had come, but she would expect him to expect that of her. He had no way of knowing which way she had gone, or what in Eru's name she thought she was doing.

_She's killing herself_. He knew Lorna, far too well – she was not stupid enough to believe she would survive a journey out into this wilderness. She still believed he would tear into her mind as soon as he could do so without killing her, so she wasn't going to give him the chance.

He was irrationally wounded that even now, she thought that. While her suspicion was only intelligent, he'd saved her life, hadn't he? He could very easily have let her die.

But then, perhaps she merely thought he was saving her for later. That too was all logical, given his past behavior. The fact that she was willing to commit suicide by freezing just to avoid it stabbed him with wholly unwelcome guilt. Lorna had been a fighter and a survivor all her life, yet she purposely sought death now.

Eru, how he had failed that woman. Failed her, and possibly broken her.

There was nothing for it – he had to at least try to find her.

* * *

The sword, Lorna discovered, did have one unorthodox use – if she stabbed it into the snow, she could tell if there was a rock or a log in her path, and keep herself from tripping _too_ often.

The snowstorm lasted for hours, but the clouds lifted near dawn, and she was treated to a breathtaking sunrise. God, but Middle-Earth was beautiful. She was glad she'd had the opportunity to see it, even if not for very bloody long.

She ate a little as she walked, because she felt oddly weak – it was probably from losing so damn much blood night before last. It was annoying; she had to put enough distance between her and Thranduil that he couldn't hunt her down and stop her freezing to death. The heavy snowfall meant he'd never find her tracks, but still. Elves were sneaky. She wouldn't put it past him to somehow find her anyway.

She trekked on into the sunrise, watching the light on the snow shift from salmon to rose to gold. The fingers of her left hand, which were wrapped around the hilt of the sword, had long since gone numb, and were looking a little blue. She'd shivered for quite a while, but eventually that had stopped; she actually felt rather warm now. Warm and free, with her brain safe from unwanted intruders (as if there were any other kind). She sang nonsense songs as she broke her path onward, heading for the sunrise.

* * *

Katje's teeth really did feel disgusting. She'd tried rubbing them clean with her finger and hot water, but it wasn't nearly as good as a toothbrush.

Tea helped a little, and it took away the taste of morning mouth. She drank three cups, and ate as hearty a breakfast as she could. Today was moving day, so she'd probably need as much energy as she could muster. At least she didn't have much to pack.

Though she didn't want to admit it, she was glad she had Geezer here. Normally Katje was as self-sufficient as they came, but she was in a totally alien world – a world that he at least knew a little about. And while she was friendly with many people, Geezer was one of only two actual _friends_ she had at the Institute.

Of course _he_ didn't seem to mind the lack of a toothbrush. She didn't know a great deal about Geezer's past – mostly because there was a lot he didn't, either – but he had been a soldier once, long ago. He remembered Vietnam, but it was possible there had been other tours of duty now lost to him. He was probably used to a lack of modern amenities, and if it bothered him now, he sure didn't show it.

Katje would freely admit that she'd been spoiled, because she had spoiled herself. Geezer and his old-fashioned sensibilities might frown on her former profession, but she had made damn good money off it, and lived accordingly. Her sensibly fat savings account was of no use to her now, however.

Her stupid curse would be, if it actually _worked_. So far, the only person she'd yet met whose curse didn't either hit at the worst possible time, or go disastrously wrong, was Ratiri. (Von Ratched, in her mind, did not count as a person.) As for the rest of them…well, there was a reason they were called _curses_. They did much harm, and any good they might do was usually sheer accident.

Before they left, the younger girl, Tilda, helped her braid and arrange her hair, which was a new experience. Katje usually did her hair herself, but even the brushes here were odd – far coarser than what she was used to. The result made her think Tilda could have made a successful hairdresser on Earth. Katje thanked her through Gandalf, then pulled her cloak on and plunged out into the cold.

The sky was crystal-clear today, but it looked like it had snowed close to a foot overnight. Since there obviously weren't going to be snowplows in a pre-Industrial world, a few poor people were out shoveling the streets by hand.

"How will we get to this mountain?" she asked Gandalf.

"With those," he said, pointing to a line of skis that rested against the side of the house.

Katje grinned – this was more like it. She might be terrible at most things in this world, but she'd learned to ski almost as soon as she learned to walk. Perhaps this would not be such a nightmare after all.

* * *

The third day after the King left, Galion gave in to temporary despair, and drank himself into oblivion.

Though many of the afflicted had woken, many more still slept. With the Prince and King gone, and half the council still slumbering, nobody was certain who was even in charge. As the only person left in the halls who was relatively close to the King, quite a few people had decided it was Galion, which was ridiculous. He was a _butler_; what did he know of leading a realm in a time of crisis? Not much, and yet the mantle of duty had been foisted upon him like an unwelcome weight.

So he drank himself into a stupor, and felt utterly foul when a messenger came with news that sobered him up in a heartbeat: there was an Edain in the forest. An Edain who spoke English.

Galion shrugged into what passed for his official robes, running a comb through his hair. What in Eru's name were they going to do with _another_ one? They could hardly turn this one away, but if the King returned, this Edain would be in very grave danger. If Thranduil's madness persisted, they might – _might_ – be able to conceal the presence of another from Lorna's world. If not, however, Galion greatly feared for this newcomer's mind.

The Edain, apparently, was in the guardroom. That made sense; the guards spoke more English than anyone else, though that wasn't exactly saying much. Their mortal guest was a man nearly as tall as the King, with unruly black hair and a complexion a few shades darker than Lorna's. His clothing was totally inadequate for a Mirkwood winter; he would have frozen to death in under fifteen minutes if he hadn't been found.

Galion had not seen Lorna when she arrived, so he did not know how she first reacted to the halls of the Woodland Realm. This man, whatever his name was, looked enthralled – not by the surroundings, but by the guards. Edain were often awed by what they saw as the unearthly beautiful of the Eldar, but this was different – he was not staring at their faces, but at the space around them, his dark eyes tracking something Galion could not see. Oh, how he hoped this man was not mad himself; on top of everything else, that simply could not be borne.

One of the youngest guards, Huoriel, appeared at Galion's side as if by magic. "He says his name is Ratiri," she said quietly. "Like Lorna, he does not know how he came to be here. None of us know enough English to properly question him about where he came from, but from what we can gather, it was terrible." Her eyes, grey as slate, watched him anxiously. "What do we do?"

Galion sighed. "Feed him," he said, "and give him proper clothing, for now. Why does he stare so?"

"We tried asking that as well, but again, we simply do not speak enough of his tongue to understand his explanation. I do not think he is mad, however," she added, as if reading Galion's mind. "He is from Lorna's world; perhaps he too is cursed."

That was all they needed. The mind of one from Lorna's world would be bad enough for Thranduil to get hold of, but one of the cursed? Galasríniel suspected that Lorna's curse was what had driven Thranduil mad, rather than what he had actually seen in her mind. Galion didn't want to speculate _what_ might happen if his King touched the mind of another so afflicted. "What do you make of him?"

"I do not yet know," Huoriel said. "He is not like Lorna. He is…gentle. Wary, yes, and confused, but I cannot imagine him attacking anyone as she did. Even if he is cursed, I do not believe he is any danger to us."

Translation: _he does not need to go in the dungeons_. "Find him a room," Galion said, "but guard him, two at a time." He turned to leave, already wanting more time.

"Galion?" Huoriel called after him, "what do we do if the King returns?"

Galion sighed. "I have no idea. We cannot let him near this man, but I do not know how we might conceal his presence. If this accursed weather ever breaks, we must take him to Radagast. The wizard will know better what to do from there." Or so he devoutly hoped.

* * *

Lorna stopped to eat at what was probably noon, far enough beneath a massive fir tree that she wasn't sitting in a snowbank.

She'd made fairly good time, or so she'd like to think. The fact that the land had been sloping gently downhill for the last mile or so certainly helped. Up a head, the line of white-smothered trees abruptly cut off – she must be near the end of a ridge. Trying to get down it sounded like a good way to break her neck, so she'd just follow it and see where it went.

Her legs remained weak and unsteady, no matter how much waybread she ate, which made her wonder just how much blood he'd actually lost. It was aggravating as hell, and made her glad she'd made off with Thranduil's sword. It had made an invaluable walking-stick.

She did kind of wish she could have seen his face, when he woke up and discovered she'd managed to run off on him. It was easy to imagine, so imagine she did, feeling inordinately pleased with herself.

The sun was well up now, glittering off the snow like millions of miniscule diamonds. For once things weren't totally silent, either; in the distance, some bird was voicing its harsh call. She had no idea what sort of bird would stay in a place like this during the winter, but it had to be a badass.

She drew a deep breath, trying to slow her pulse. Walking in all this snow was great cardio exercise, helped by the fact that she had to push her endurance into overdrive to make up for her weakened muscles. At least she hadn't smoked for so long that her lung capacity was actually close to what a normal person's should be.

The hilt of the sword was still cold in her hand, and she looked at it. It really was a beautiful weapon, and if Thranduil was willing to carry it, it had to be a damn good one, too – and she'd nicked it. She'd stolen it out from under the nose of the King of the bloody Woodland Realm, and she probably shouldn't feel as much of a sense of accomplishment as she did. Stealing something was easy when its owner was asleep.

A stick cracked somewhere behind her, and she froze. Adrenaline dumped into her system like a bucket of ice, but she stayed still, listening. Elves, the floaty bastards, didn't crack sticks they stepped on, but who the hell else would be out here? Was there some kind of down no one had ever mentioned?

Lorna listened carefully, but her ears were only human. She _thought_ she heard something swishing through the snow, but it could just be her imagination. A goddamn Elf would probably know what it was (if it was really anything) just by breathing.

All right, yeah, there really was something walking, and it didn't sound like anything on two legs. Heart in her throat, she stood, very slowly, and turned.

"Oh, fuck everything," she sighed.

The thing in front of her looked like a wolf on steroids. Lorna had never seen a wolf in real life, but she was pretty sure they weren't meant to be this big – whatever the hell this was, it was the size of a damn pony, and it looked a little too pleased to see her. Great strings of drool dripped from its fangs – and yes, they were _fangs_ – and its shaggy grey coat was sparse in patches, like it had mange, with a sour stench that made her eyes water. Or, oh shite, could it be rabid? That was all she needed. She'd come out here to die, but not by wolf ingestion.

Well. At least she had what her gran would call a nice shiny pig-sticker. If this thing tried to kill her, she had a chance to take it with her.

Her brief sword-lesson was utterly useless – Thranduil's sword was much too long for any of the maneuvers Elladan had taught her. She held it in the way that felt most natural to her: like a cricket bat, taking comfort in the solid weight of the hilt.

"Teacht a fháil dom, tá tú bastaird," she growled – and grinned.

There was no way the thing could have understood her words, but it must have read the challenge in her voice. It leapt toward her, and Lorna had at it.

She dodged left, knowing that if it landed on her, she'd be fatally hosed. Even weakened by blood loss, she was strong enough to sink the blade well into the wolf's side. Pulling it _out_ again was something of a bitch, and wrenched the shoulder she'd so stupidly dislocated.

The wolf-thing let out something halfway between a shriek and a howl, so loud that she wondered if it had ruptured her left eardrum. A shocking amount of blood sprayed from the wound, splattering all over the snow and all over Lorna.

It staggered, but rounded on her again with unnerving grace, its mad red eyes filled with an almost human rage. Well, it could suck it – before it could leap again, she lunged and jammed the blade straight through its right eye.

The thing collapsed, almost taking her down with it. She yanked the sword free, flushed and breathless and brimming with vicious triumph.

"I'd eat you, you fucker, if I didn't think I'd get kuru or some shite," she snarled, wiping her bloody face with her equally bloody sleeve. "I'm dying out here on my own goddamn terms."

Another sound suddenly overrode her panting breath – a low growl, right behind her. It just fucking figured that this thing had friends.

Lorna laughed, and turned to face it. It growled again, and she growled right back, adrenaline and wrath and a weird, savage joy singing in her veins. Maybe she was going to die, but she was alive right now, and she was damn well going to enjoy herself while she could. "Bring it, hairball. I'll wear your entrails for a fucking _scarf_."

Bring it it did, but its massive size was actually a hindrance to it – Lorna ducked, rolled, and sliced it open from shoulder to hipbone. Its steaming guts spilled out into the snow, and she fought down a gag. A second stab through the side of its head brought it down, and sprayed her with even more hot, stinking blood.

There was another on its heels, apparently not deterred at all by the fact that she'd just slaughtered its two friends. It got a sword in the chest for its troubles, but she barely had the time to pull the blade free before a fourth was on her.

Now she was good and furious, her muscles leant strength by the sheer force of her rage. The sword was so sharp that when she swung it around and down, it actually lopped the wolf-thing's head clean off.

"There any more've you little shites out there?" she cried. "Anybody?" The snow was washed with red, steaming in places, and Lorna laughed again. She was covered in blood that reeked like hot copper, her hands and sleeves smeared with it, and oh, she was _alive_, alive and practically delirious with victory.

So, of course, Thranduil and his fucking elk had to show up to spoil the party.

God dammit.

She leveled the sword at him, her eyes narrowing. "Don't you even fucking _start_ with me, mate," she snarled.

His look of total shock was something she'd cherish for however long she had left. Wiping that perpetual expression of superiority off his pretty face was something she took an almost malicious amount of pride in. And, wonder of wonders, he seemed to have nothing to say.

* * *

The fog had started to descend on Thranduil almost before he had left the cave, all the clarity of the last few days evaporating. The craving he'd subsumed came roaring back in full force, ripping him so completely that even before he'd been riding a quarter of an hour, he was ready to split Lorna's head open when he found her, and read her mind in a horrifyingly literal way.

How dare she? _How dare she?_ After all he had done for her, an insignificant Edain – he had given her food and shelter, had saved her life after she so foolishly ran away, and this was how she repaid him?

When he found her, he'd kill her. And he would not do it quickly.

Only that wasn't how it worked out.

By sheer luck he'd found her tracks, but what really led him on was the sudden, distant snarling of wargs, and a great deal of infuriated cursing, English and Irish – of _course_ Lorna would manage to find the only wargs left in this entire forest. There was no pain in her cries, however – only rage and, very bizarrely, a sort of malevolent glee.

He urged the elk forward, wondering what he would find. The creature skillfully dodged through the trees, and he wished with all his might that he had the sword – though whether to kill the wargs or Lorna, he was not sure.

Having what he did of her memory, he should not have been surprised by the scene that he found. Lorna might have next to no skill with a blade, but she had an endless well of rage, no doubt fueled by her anger at him. What she lacked in finesse she made up for in brute strength, however diminished it might be at the moment.

Lorna was not a Vala, nor an Elf, but she _was_ alien, and never had she looked more so until that moment. Her face was streaked and splashed with gore, her hair a wild tangle of black and silver, her eyes like green stars, and when she leveled his own sword at him, he thought he had never seen anything like her. She was Edain, but more than Edain – caged within her was a force of power that he wanted to exploit far more than he wanted whatever might still be locked secret within her mind. She was a tiny force of Nature personified, and it burned away the fog, banished the craving that urged him to kill her and have done with it.

"Ettelëa," he said, hardly aware of what left his mouth. This woman could be a perfect weapon, and she had no idea.

"Huh?" she asked, though she did not lower the sword.

"Ettelëa," he repeated, hopping down from the elk. "Stranger. Do not throw your life away out here, Lorna. I know you do not trust me, and I cannot fault you for it, but I swear I mean you no harm – in any sense. Come back to the Woodland Realm, little Ettelëa – I will teach you, and then you can do whatever you wish."

She did not need to say what she thought of _that_ idea – it was so plain on her face that she might as well have screamed it. "And _why_ should I trust you now?"

"Because I know you do not truly wish to die," he said, approaching her carefully "Because you were brought here for a reason, and you will never know why if you allow yourself to freeze simply to spite me. You were meant for more, Lorna Saoirse Donovan, and I can show you how to take it."

She didn't respond, but neither did she back away. Thranduil knew he could not make her trust him – not now, and possibly not ever – but he needed her to come with him. Her death would be a criminal waste. She would never serve him as a guard or captain or general, but merely the thought of sending her out into the world to wreak havoc was one he could not resist.

"Come with me, Ettelëa," he said, "and I will show you how to kill anyone else like me. No one will ever hurt you again."

_That_ made her pause. She looked at the ridge, and the bodies of the wargs, clearly weighing her options. He was the lesser of all the evils she had to choose from, and she was smart enough to know it.

"You're still a twat," she said at last. "And I'm keeping your sword."

Thranduil laughed. Keep it she could, for now – she would never manage to hurt him with it, but if it gave her enough false security to stay with him rather than run again, she was welcome to it until they reached the Woodland Realm.

"You are utterly filthy," he said, wetting the edge of his cloak with his canteen. "Hold still."

He didn't leave her time to ask why – he grabbed her shoulder and wiped her face, ignoring her squawk of protest. She didn't try to stab him, at least – she just hit him.

"I hate you," she said, glowering.

He smirked. "I can live with that."

* * *

Caroc was cold and his wings were tired, but he had much news for King Dain. The raven had flown far and wide these last days, scouting the lands all around Erebor. Wargs in the woods, a new Edain in the Woodland Realm, the _original_ Edain alive and well and arguing with King Thranduil like a child – Dain would have a feast of facts to dine upon. Eru only knew what he'd choose to _do_ with them, but that was none of Caroc's concern.

* * *

Ratiri is – you guessed it – also from my books. His presence in Mirkwood is going to be a severe test of Thranduil's already tenuous sanity. Fortunately, Galadriel and Legolas aren't _too_ far away, and Lorna does, after all, still have Thranduil's sword. She can't kill him with it, but she could whack him pretty hard.

Title means "What is Seen" in Irish. What Lorna yells at the wolf translates to "Come and get me, you bastard."


	20. Contúirt Druidim

In which what Katje and Geezer have to say makes Dain very worried, Thranduil and Lorna finally get back to Mirkwood, and Lorna discovers there's another like her hiding in the halls (and realizes immediately that Thranduil _can't_ know that. Ever.)

LOL my original intent was to make this a somewhat realistic fic, and then I go in and add all sorts of magic. Oops.

* * *

By some miracle, Tauriel and her party happened upon elk-tracks.

They were all of them so exhausted they could barely think, having now reached the point where they went on because it was easier than stopping. She had long since lost hope of finding anything, yet here something blatantly was.

Something, and some _smell_. She wrinkled her nose with distaste – there was the scent of blood in the air, hours old now, and the stink of warg. Faelon and Menelwen hurried forward, Beleg and Sadronniel flanking them, while Tauriel listened.

Whatever wargs had been here were either dead or gone – dead by the stench of it. Nothing lost that much blood and lived.

They found the corpses not far away – four of them, killed without any skill or finesse. A smattering of small footprints, and several areas where someone had clearly floundered in the snow, made Tauriel wonder if _Lorna_ had done this, but with what? Thranduil would never have given her a weapon, nor would he have willingly let her go. Somehow she'd escaped, and acquired a blade along the way.

That thought was not as heartening as it might have been, though, because there were also elk-tracks, and the prints of much larger boots. Thranduil had found her again, and yet there was no sign of a struggle. If Lorna had gone back with him, it had been of her own free will, and what was Tauriel to make of _that_?

Whatever the reason, they could not be far away now. That knowledge gave her a fresh burst of energy, and she led her little squadron onward at a faster pace.

* * *

Thranduil had not intended to push the elk's endurance, but Lorna's clothing stank so badly that the animal needed no urging. It was just as well that Elves had strong stomachs, because the stench was revolting.

Lorna herself seemed too terrified to care. He'd known she didn't like heights, but so long as the elk went slowly, she didn't seem to mind. Now, however, she lay almost flat along its back, gripping the fur on its neck like a lifeline and swearing all the while. Fortunately she couldn't see the amusement on his face, or she probably would have kicked him.

"You are willing to ride a motorcycle, yet this frightens you?" he asked.

She turned her head enough to glare at him over her shoulder. "Motorcycles aren't twelve feet above the damn ground."

"Neither is the elk."

"He's close enough. And quit making that face."

"What face?"

"_That_ face. You're laughing like hell on the inside."

He arched an eyebrow. "And how would you know?"

"Because, let me remind you, that memory transfer went both ways. If I do ever get my hands on a motorcycle, I'll take you for a ride and push it to ninety, just so I can watch you panic and scream like a little girl."

"I have never screamed like a little girl," he said, sounding insufferably smug even to his own ears.

"There's a first time for everything," she muttered darkly.

* * *

Caroc had reported to Dain, and then flown off to his nest, grumbling about the cold all the while.

Well. Dain retreated to his private study to ponder it all, seated in a comfortable armchair before a roaring fire. There were no documents awaiting his signature here; the only books or papers it contained were private, and mostly pertaining to his family history, or that of the mountain. It was a place for quiet and drinking and contemplation, furnished mostly with the old things he'd had brought from the Iron Hills. Even his own people didn't think he was much of a person to contemplate things over-much, and he was content to let them think it. Dain knew that in some areas, there was value in being underestimated.

Lorna – and he was glad to hear that the lass was alive _and_ annoying Thranduil – he could have dismissed as a fluke. Katje and Geezer had been slightly more cause for concern, especially since they already knew one another in their own world, but this fourth forced Dain to acknowledge that this might be an ongoing phenomenon. And he didn't know _what_ to make of that – or what to do about it.

He had not yet spoken to Katje and Geezer. He'd get more information out of them once they'd settled in a little, rather than trying to interrogate them right away. That they did know one another was something of a boon to them both; they might be in an alien world where precious few could understand them, but they were not alone. Nor were they in any danger, like Lorna and this new one in the Woodland Realm; none in Erebor would harm them, though like most Big Folk, they might find it difficult to live underground for any length of time.

The wizard couldn't – or wouldn't – linger, but the young Elf, Arandur, was on hand to translate. If ever Dain could come near to actually liking an Elf, it would be that lad. He was so curious about _everything_, and if he'd ever said a rude word to a Dwarf, Dain never heard of it. The sons of Elrond were also unlike the Wood-Elves; having this one (which ever it was) here would be no great hardship.

Dwalin rapped on the door. "Our…guests…are settled," he said. "They're willing to talk now. As well as they can."

Dain snorted. This probably would get a bit interesting – Arandur knew much English, but he was hardly fluent in it, and evidently Katje wasn't either. It hadn't occurred to Dain, though it should have, that not everyone from their world would have the same mother-tongue. What in Mahal's name would they do if they found a stranger who couldn't speak English? He didn't know, but he wouldn't borrow trouble yet.

"Ye might as well bring them here. If their surroundings are too grand, they may well clam up."

Dwalin nodded and left, returning some fifteen minutes later with man, woman and Elves.

Katje, Dain suspected, was every bit as curious as Arandur – she was just better at hiding it. She was also wary – though not so wary as Geezer, whose eyes automatically checked for exits. Though his posture was slightly stooped, Dain knew he was looking at a warrior.

Both of them were far too tall for the other armchairs; Geezer remained standing, but Katje sat on the desk. Arandur seemed perfectly content to sit beside her, a stack of parchment in his hands, while the twin (and it really was aggravating, not knowing which he was) actually sat on the back of a chair.

"What have ye got there, lad?" Dain asked.

"A vocabulary list. English is a very complex language." He set the parchment aside. "What is it you wish to know?"

Dain had so many questions that to ask them all would keep everyone here a good three days, so he settled on the most practical. "How many of their kind could be a danger to us, should they come here?"

Arandur translated the question, and Katje and Geezer shared a sober glance. When she spoke, Dain didn't need to understand her words to hear how haunted her voice was.

"Not many, I think," Arandur translated. "Most of us cannot use our curses, and are a danger only to ourselves. There is one, though, who is a danger to everyone."

Geezer took over, launching into a long explanation that made Arandur have to pause him a few times for clarification. The man's expression was worryingly grim.

"I am not sure I fully understand him," Arandur said, "but he says there is a man, a healer, who can read and control others' minds, and move things without touching them. He had Geezer and Katje and many others imprisoned in a fortress deep in the wilderness. I do not know the word he has used to describe what was done to them all, but I believe it means that they were tortured so that this man might learn…something."

Control minds? Lorna hadn't been able to read them properly, let alone _control_ them – and she certainly couldn't move things without touching them. "What does he mean by 'control'?"

More unintelligible discussion. What Katje said made Arandur pale.

"She says that hundreds of soldiers – warriors – came to the fortress to kill them all, and the healer made them kill each other. She and Geezer and the other…inmates, which I think means prisoners…had to clean up the bodies."

That turned Dain's blood to ice. Older Elves could read minds, but he'd never heard of them forcing their will on another person, let alone hundreds of people. "What can we do, if he turns up here?"

Arandur asked, and Dain knew he wasn't going to like the answer even before it was translated.

"Nothing," the lad said. "There is nothing you can do."

"He is Edain, however," the twins said. "No matter how powerful he may be, he cannot be a match for an Eldar. The sheer weight of Thranduil's power nearly killed Lorna, and he was not even trying. I know you will not like this, King Dain, but it might be wise to station at least one older Elf here."

No, Dain didn't like it – at all – but he was a pragmatist. "If ye can find any that will come. Are ye not old enough yourself?"

The twin shrugged. "I do not know. I will stay here until spring, but as soon as I can, I must take Arandur to my father, so that he can explain what has happened to King Thranduil. He will know who to send here in my stead." He paused. "I do not think there are many of us who can strip a malevolent presence from another's mind without damaging it. My grandmother Lady Galadriel, and my father, and some of the most experienced healers. Should this man do as he did with the soldiers, and gather hundreds at a time, I do not know what we can do that will not result in death. If this healer does arrive, we must try to kill him before he can get started."

"What does he look like?"

Arandur asked, and the description he gave sounded unsettlingly like Thranduil himself: very tall, with extremely pale eyes, not old but not young, either. At least he'd stand out in a crowd, even among other Men.

"I'll post guards," Dain said, "and order them to shoot on sight." Such an action sat very ill with him – usually he only employed that order with orcs – but he would not take any risk with his people. The description of this healer was so distinctive that any case of mistaken identity sounded highly unlikely.

Were any of them appearing in other parts of Middle-Earth? If that one were to land in somewhere like Gondor or Rohan, the fact that he wouldn't understand the language might not stop him.

And he'd almost certainly be looking for his escaped prisoners sooner or later. Maybe Katje and Geezer weren't as safe here as Dain had thought.

* * *

Never, ever would Lorna have thought she'd feel glad to see Mirkwood, but right now her need for a bath and clothes that didn't reek outweighed her worry about whatever unpleasant mental things might follow.

That, and she wanted off this bloody elk. Somehow she'd managed to keep hold of Thranduil's sword, though it made hanging onto the creature's fur harder than it ought to be, and the bastard was still so obviously amused that she was going to hit him with it as soon as she got the chance. The blade had a flat side, after all. If he wasn't so stupidly tall, she'd have hit him in the face with the back of her head; as it was, she knew she wouldn't even reach his chin. _God_ she hated tall people.

At least, when the jolting of their ride grew too much for her stomach, she managed to hit his left boot when she leaned over and sicked up. If she had to be utterly filthy, she was not going to be the only one.

Darkness had almost completely fallen when they reached a gate she didn't recognize – huge and black in the dim light, it was contoured so that it could easily blend in with the stone around it. It opened into a stable that contained some badly startled grooms, one of whom rabbited – probably to tell someone their crazy King was home.

"Bath," she muttered, half-climbing, half-falling off the elk and almost landing on her arse. "Bath now. Whatever else later."

"The healing wards have baths," Thranduil said, eying his boot with such distaste that she would have laughed if she'd had the energy. "And clean clothes. You might as well burn those – you will never get the blood out."

"So long as I can get some trousers," she muttered. "Where the hell are the healing wards from here?"

"Follow me – and give that back," he said, holding out his hand for the sword.

"Yeah, _nope_. If I've got hold of this thing, people won't go assuming I'm all bloody because you tried to kill me."

Clearly, he had not thought of that. "Very well. But I want it back once we reach the wards. Now come along, before the stench of you makes the animals faint."

Lorna didn't stick her tongue out at him, but it was a very near thing.

Fortunately for her – and everyone who saw her – the wards were not actually terribly far away. No wonder nobody had let her explore very far; she could have found a very easy way out.

Unfortunately, the healing wards actually had patients, for once – most of whom looked comatose. What the hell?

She almost ran right into Galasríniel, who gave her a look of utter horror. "It's not mine," she said in Sindarin. "Bath. Now."

"And fresh clothes," Thranduil added insistently. "What has happened here?"

Galasríniel looked so off-balance that Lorna wondered if she had temporarily forgot how to speak, face pale and eyes huge. "It is a long story, my lord," she said at last, her voice unsteady. "I will tell you all once I have seen to Lorna."

"I am sure it will prove quite fascinating," he said dryly, and Lorna snorted.

"Oh, go clean off your boot. I need a bath and a week-long nap."

By now Galasríniel looked ready to faint, and hustled Lorna off before she could say something even more appalling. Her nose wrinkled with distaste.

"Sorry I smell," Lorna said. "I had a fight with some giant wolves. It got…messy."

Galasríniel stared at her, then shook her head, evidently deciding she didn't want to know. "Why do you have the King's sword?"

"Wolves," Lorna said, looking down at it. It really needed to be cleaned. "And I sort of stole it."

"You -" Galasríniel gave up. "You must wash before you get in a tub. And your _hair_…"

"I know." The bathing chamber was large, warm, and private, and she hardly cared if Galasríniel saw her shuck all her clothes. Doing so made her realize that she badly needed to shave her armpits, too. "D'you have anything like a razor?"

"A what?" Something in the healer's mind finally clicked. "How have you mastered Sindarin so swiftly?"

"Having my brain dug through did have a couple nice side effects," Lorna said. There was a grate in the floor beside the fireplace, that drained somewhere further underground, so she went to the large, recessed tub, scooped up a bucket of warm water, and dumped it right over her head. It sluiced away the blood and a surprising amount of sweat, given how cold her journey had been.

Galasríniel blinked at her, and apparently filed that too among things she did not want to ask about right now. "You are…unharmed?" she asked carefully, as Lorna dredged a second budget. God did the hot water feel good, and she'd not even had a proper bath yet.

"Yes and no," she said, before upending the bucket over her head. "Gandalf says my brain's bleeding, but it's not a recent injury. If you mean did Thranduil go rooting around in my head again like a kid after a Cracker Jack prize, no, he didn't. It would have killed me, and he knows it."

Galasríniel's relief was a palpable thing. "I think you can go in the bath now," she said. "I will find you some clean clothes, but we must speak, while we have time."

"Great," Lorna sighed. "But seriously, razor. I need to shave my armpits." She mimed the action, and comprehension dawned on Galasríniel's face.

"I see. I will find you something."

"You're a peach." Lorna climbed down into the tub, for a moment just relishing the feel of actually having a bath. The room smelled of incense and herbs and lavender, and she shut her eyes and smiled. She had soap and shampoo and whatever Elves used for conditioner nearby – for this moment at least, all was right in her world.

She'd scrubbed and shampooed by the time Galasríniel came back with clothes and, thank God, a razor. The Elf decorously turned her back as Lorna finished the rest of her ablutions, as if Lorna actually cared. She'd lived so many times in her life in places without much in the way of privacy; the concept of modesty was a bit alien.

"You say your brain is bleeding," Galasríniel said, once Lorna was dried off and dressed – in an actual dress, unfortunately. It was a beautiful green thing with gold embroidery, simple by Elven standards but way too fancy for hers, and of course she was utterly swamped by the amount of fabric. She tried to roll the sleeves back so that she could actually see her hands, and failed. Sigh.

"So Gandalf tells me. Thranduil's not the first person to go digging through my head – the first one did a lot've damage, and he just made it worse. He had to do something he called a soul-anchoring halfway here, which, let me tell you, hurt like a mad bastard, but it must've worked, since I'm not dead."

Galasríniel winced. "Lorna, you should not refer to him so," she said.

Lorna snorted. "The twat broke my brain and kidnapped me," she said, wondering if anyone would get mad if she tore some of the length off the hem. She wasn't sure she'd be able to walk otherwise. "I'll call him anything I damn well please. Besides, I've bled, drooled, and sicked up on him. Formality just doesn't work after that."

Galasríniel closed her eyes, as though praying for strength. She took up a hairbrush and gestured for Lorna to come stand before her. "I should not tell you this," she said quietly, using the brush as an excuse to lean closer to Lorna's ear. "You must tell no one, because the King cannot know, but there is another here now. Another like you."

Lorna froze, but somehow managed not to swear. "Go on," she murmured, trying to will her suddenly wild pulse to slow. She didn't know if she was excited or utterly terrified – she was going to go with both. She wanted, so, _so_ much to see another person from Earth, but if Thranduil found out there was a human whose brain he could rape without the risk of killing them, he'd probably do it. He'd promised not to hurt _her_, but not any others like her. And even if she kept his sword, she knew she didn't have the chance of a fart in a windstorm of stopping him.

"We need you to speak with him, when you have a chance. None of us understand enough English. Now that the King is here, and there is no risk of running into him on the road, we wish to smuggle the stranger to Dale."

"Bard's going to kill us," Lorna sighed. "D'you know this man's name?"

"Ratiri," Galasríniel said, drawing the brush in careful strokes. Lorna's already long hair had grown even longer in the last five months; before, she'd been able to sit on it, but now it practically reached the backs of her knees. She needed a haircut, because there was long, and then there was ridiculous. "We believe he is one of the cursed."

"Of bloody course he is," Lorna muttered. Was there anyone on Earth who wasn't, by now? She wasn't sure just how fast it had been spreading, but it could well have picked up speed. Wouldn't that be a nightmare. "Take me to him, once you've got Thranduil good and distracted with something. Beleg and Sadronniel said he's lost his marbles, but he seemed as sane as he ever was the last few days."

"I hope that is a good sign. He has frightened us since you and Arandur fled." She squeezed the last of the water from Lorna's hair with a towel. "Perhaps it is best if you _do_ continue annoying him. If he is irritated, he will not think so clearly."

Lorna turned enough to look Galasríniel in her very, very blue eyes. "Galasríniel, it would be my absolute bloody pleasure."

* * *

Dain's got reason to worry – as does Ratiri, though he doesn't yet know it. The Elves are going to have all kinds of fun trying to keep Thranduil from figuring out he's there – though not as much fun as Lorna, who will take Galasríniel's suggestion to heart with a vengeance. (Incidentally, by the second book of their canon, Ratiri's also Lorna's husband. I have no idea yet how that will play out in this story, since the circumstances under which they got together were veeeery different.)

Title means "Approaching Danger" in Irish

Also, just to get this out of the way, to the person who keeps anon commenting on this story to demand I update Úcenite (and trying to tell me how to write it): Knock. That. Shit.**_ OFF_**. Not only is it taking all the fun out of even the idea of working on it, I'm tempted to turn off anon reviews and/or take the damn story down. Stop it. Just...stop. If I get one more annoying anon demand from you (and yes, I know that you are the same person) that I continue the story and put romance in, anon comments are going down. I do not want to remove the story, but I'm sick and frigging tired of being told how to write my own fanfic.


	21. Is Stoirm ag Teacht

In which Lorna meets Ratiri, Thranduil loses his marbles a bit and has cheese thrown at him, Geezer's curse turns up some something very, very bad, and Thranduil and Lorna get drunk and talk about boys. (Yes, you read that right.)

* * *

Much as Lorna wanted to meet this other human, she was utterly exhausted. Galasríniel didn't have to do much to persuade her to stay in the healing wards, either; she, her impractical dress, and her wet hair were tucked into bed in one of the few spare rooms.

She had to admit, she'd missed Elf-beds. And their baths. And their shampoo. Whatever she was to face when she woke, at least she'd finally have had a good night's sleep.

_Her dreams were strange. She stood out on an open plane, barren and rocky, what felt like sharp lava-bed pumice beneath her bare feet. The sky above boiled with clouds in various hues of bruise, dark purple fighting with sickly yellow. The light had an unsettlingly greenish tint, and the wind that blasted about her was oven-hot and desert-dry. It smelled like dust and impending rain, but not a drop fell from the churning sky._

_She was alone, or so she thought – when she turned, she found people behind her. Friends, for the most part – Arandur, Faelon, and Menelwen, with Tauriel and over a dozen other guards behind them. Bard and his daughters stood to the left, alongside Elladan and Elrohir, who flanked Galasríniel. Even Thranduil and Arsehole were there, towering at the very back._

_And none of them had eyes. Each face held only gaping black holes – caverns that led to some nightmare she could not comprehend. Arandur reached for her, his fingers turned to claws – _

Lorna screamed, and kept screaming for a moment even after she woke. Her heart hammered in her chest, adrenaline squirrel-caging through her system.

_A storm is coming, Lorna._

What the fuck? The thought was not her own. The mental voice sounded nothing like her, or anyone else she'd met here – it was female, and unusually deep for a woman, with an inhuman resonance that seemed to echo in Lorna's skull.

She didn't know how long she'd been asleep, but she was sure as hell wide awake _now_. Her dreams were usually weird, but only rarely were they that vivid. She definitely didn't want to risk another just yet.

She swung her feet to the floor, the hem of her dress pooling around them. With an exasperated sigh, she ripped about four inches off the bottom. It was still too long, but at least she wouldn't risk tripping and breaking her neck. A walk was needed, and maybe a drink.

Galasríniel was nowhere to be seen when she tiptoed out of her room, thank God. The rows of sleeping Elves were creepy as hell – seriously, how could anyone sleep with their eyes open? It just wasn't natural. She crept out into the corridors as quietly as she could, and paused. Destination didn't matter; walking did. Going down was easier than going up, and the kitchens were somewhere in the lower levels, so down she went.

The halls and walkways were so empty it was spooky, but it was also to her advantage – if no one saw her, they couldn't order her back to bed. All she wanted was a little glass – well, maybe a big one – of that potent wine, and then she wouldn't dream at all.

She paused at one of the waterfalls, letting the frigid spray mist her face. After the horrible dryness of her nightmare, it felt wonderful.

"You're human."

Lorna jumped, swore, and nearly tripped right off the edge of the platform. Fucking dress. She peered down the stairs and found the speaker – this had to be Ratiri. Weirdly, it was wonderful to finally see someone in this damn place who wasn't white – and who was damn good-looking to boot. He reminded her of some Indian TV star, though for the life of her she couldn't remember the name. "So I am. You shouldn't be out wandering – the King's barmy, and you're not safe if he finds you." She hurried down the stairs, cursing the damn dress the whole way. "Come on, the kitchen's not far. I'm starving, and you need to eat like five sandwiches before you'll not be underweight."

Of bloody course he had to be stupidly tall, too – hell, she'd bet he was as tall as Thranduil. Still, she'd check her resentment of tall people and just be glad he was _human_. "How long have you been here?"

"Only a few days," he said, mercifully following her without question. His accent was Scottish, but she could forgive him for that. "You must be the other one the…Elves…mentioned." The sheer disbelief infused in the word 'Elves' made her laugh.

"The idea takes some getting used to, I know," she said. "You'll manage it eventually." She led him down another flight of steps, and through a huge open door. This was the wine cellar rather than the kitchen, but the guards usually had food stashed here. There was something almost sinister about the sight of all those barrels sitting mostly in shadow, illuminated only by the light of the dying fire. Lorna fed it with a few logs, and lit two lanterns.

"You have no idea how nice it is to just speak _English_ with someone," she said, rooting around in the cupboards for some bread and cheese. "Really speak it, without charades or anything."

"Oh yes I do," he said, sitting at the table, hands folded as if he was afraid to touch anything. "The…Elves…try, but their comprehension is somewhat lacking.

Lorna burst out laughing, even as she piled bread, cheese, and some dried fruit on a big wooden platter. "Well, sure haven't I had only five months to teach them. And I was gone near a fortnight." She plunked the platter onto the table, and fought with her sleeves until she could actually see both her hands. "Tell me what's Earth like?"

Ratiri picked up a piece of cheese, but all he did was turn it over in his fingers. She caught a flash of something – a room, white and cold and sterile, associated with pain – and tried ruthlessly to shove it away. "A nightmare," he said quietly. "I wish I had come here five months ago. Are there any others like us?"

"I've not see any," she said, pouring two glasses of the wine. The haze of alcohol made her eyes water, but it was welcome; if she could distract her mind a little, maybe it wouldn't try to read his. "Nor has anyone else I've talked to." She set one glass in front of him. "Are they still hunting the cursed on Earth?"

"Of course they are." There was another flash – the back of a van, needles and pain and the stink of disinfectant. Ratiri took a sip of the wine, and choked.

Lorna tried not to laugh, but his expression was priceless – and no doubt mirrored her own, when she'd first tasted the stuff. "Definitely got a kick, hasn't it?" she snickered. "You should've seen when I first tried it. Take it easy, or you'll be falling-down ossified before you know what's hit you. And what hits you might be the floor."

She wanted to ask him so many questions – where he'd been before he came here, what he'd been doing, what his curse was – but she reminded herself that he'd only been in Middle-Earth a few days. Patience didn't always come easily to her, but she'd have to try.

He stared into his glass, not seeming to know what to say. Lorna, however, was not one to let an awkward silence stretch. "So, I was bored and cold a while back, and I translated 'Crazy Train' into Sindarin – what the Elves speak. It was bloody hard, since they haven't got a word for 'rails' _or_ 'train', but I got there in the end."

Ratiri looked at her as though he couldn't decide if she were utterly mental or not. He took another, more careful sip of his wine, which she matched with a gulp. Mmm, the burn. "How does it go?" he asked.

She grinned. They were sadly lacking anything resembling a guitar, but some of the steel pots could make for good percussive instruments, provided she could keep her frigging sleeves out of the way. When she tried to rise to grab one, though, she staggered, and upended her goblet all over her dress. Well, fuck.

"I should have known you would immediately head for the alcohol."

Lorna twitched, tripped, and very nearly fell face-first into a round of cheese. She was either too drunk to deal with this, or not nearly drunk enough. "Wear a _bell_, Thranduil," she said, glaring at him. The Smirk of Superiority was back in full force, but there was something strange and unsettling in his zombie eyes.

"Who is your friend?" he asked.

Oh

Oh shit.

"His name is Ratiri," she said in English, hazarding a glance at the man in question. The poor bloke was ashen with fear, which was only a natural response to a first encounter with Thranduil. She switched to Sindarin when she added, "_No_, Thranduil. Stay away from him."

"He is like you," Thranduil said, of course ignoring her and stepping fully through the door. "He is from your world. I heard him speaking English."

Fuck fuck _fuck_. Looking at those frigging crazy eyes, she understood why Galasríniel said he'd gone off his rocker – but he hadn't been like this at all on the trip here. What happened?

"Stay out've his head," she warned. "I made you crazy, right? He'll just make you worse, and you're King've the bloody Elves, for Christ's sake – show some self-restraint."

Yeah, that wasn't getting through to him. She remembered him as he'd been in her dream, with holes where his eyes should be, and before she even knew what she was doing, she lobbed a cheese at him.

He _must_ have been distracted, because it actually hit him square in the chest. It stopped him, too; confusion overtook the rather terrifying hunger in his eyes.

"Did you really just throw cheese at me?" he demanded.

"Yes, yes I did. Let's take a walk, Thranduil." Maybe she could get him out of here before he remembered Ratiri's presence.

"Not until I speak with your friend," he said, an ominous touch of dreamy instability in his voice.

"I've got a lot've cheese, Thranduil," Lorna warned, "and I'm not afraid to waste it. You said there was shite you could teach me, but if you go and be a twat about this, I'll vandalize your elk, steal your sword, and pour syrup in your hair when you're not looking."

He was close now, way too close, but if she backed off, he'd win, and _why_ the hell was he all crazy again? She threw another cheese at him, which he deflected this time – but he was so intent on stalking Ratiri that he _didn't_ deflect the slap she fetched him.

It was possibly the sheer shock that made him pause, and for a moment Lorna was legitimately afraid he was going to kill her.

"Stop," she said. "Thranduil, you're supposed to be a better person than this. I'd know," she added, tapping her temple. "Now, you almost killed me. Don't do the same thing to Ratiri."

"Ratiri," he said slowly, though he was still glaring at her like he'd like to set her on fire.

"That's his name. He is a _person_, Thranduil, not a walking mental treasure chest. You do to him what you did to me and you're not better than that doctor."

_That_ made him pause – and, finally, blink.

"Ratiri, go," she said, not daring to look away from Thranduil. "_Go_."

Ratiri stood, and Lorna snapped her fingers in front of Thranduil's face when his eyes wandered past her.

"Don't even," she warned, though he knew as well as she did that she had absolutely nothing to back up that warning. She only had any control here at all because he let her, which told her that some part of him still knew that what he wanted to do was wrong.

She held his gaze by force of will alone while Ratiri passed, and she listened intently as footsteps receded up the stairs.

"Here," she said, picking up Ratiri's mostly-full glass. "Drink this." She practically shoved it into his hand, and poured herself another. God, her nerves were shot. "What the hell, Thranduil? What was _that_?"

To her unspeakable relief, the odd, hungry madness faded from his eyes, leaving him confused and visibly worried. "I…do not know," he said, taking a long drink of wine and sitting in Ratiri's vacated seat. "I had thought myself passed that." He sounded pretty pissed off that he wasn't, too.

"You are," she said, sipping her own wine, "with me. Apparently not with others. You have got to get a handle on that – Ratiri being here means I'm not a fluke, and you can't just go brain-raping every new human you encounter because you don't know how to stop yourself."

He tensed, his glare turning outright murderous, but Lorna was too drunk to care. "You can't tell me you haven't already thought've that," she said. "There is something _wrong_ with you, Thranduil. And until it's fixed, you can't go near Ratiri, or any others who show up from Earth. You've already freaked out everyone who lives here more than enough."

She knew he'd never admit aloud that she was right, because that just wasn't who he was, but he had to know it. He suddenly looked…tired. Very, very tired.

"There are none here who can heal true sickness of the mind," he said, draining his glass. "And I will not have the other Elven Lords and Ladies knowing of my…weakness."

Lorna rolled her eyes. Men really were all the same, no matter what their species. "Well, nobody can go anywhere until spring anyway. Try to work on it yourself until then, and _stay away from Ratiri._ He's nice and sad and pretty and he doesn't need your shite."

Thranduil arched one of his truly impressive eyebrows. "Pretty?"

She was appalled to feel her face heat. She was going to go ahead and blame _that_ on the wine. "Shut it. Don't you dare repeat that."

"You live in a cavern filled with Elves for five months, yet it is the only other Edain that you find _pretty_," he said, so amused she wanted to crawl into a hole and die. So _this_ was what embarrassment felt like. She couldn't say she recommended it.

She buried her face in her hands. Oh God, she was _never_ going to live this down, was she? "You people are too pretty to be real," she said, her voice muffled by her palms. "Like statues. Ratiri's real, and why are we still having this conversation?"

"Because I did not think you were capable of blushing." Dammit, she'd take crazy!Thranduil over taunting!Thranduil. He was enjoying himself way too much at her expense.

Her fingers shifted enough to let her glare at him with one eye. "Stuff it, Drag Queen Barbie," she growled. If he had as much of her memory as she thought he did, he'd understand what all of those words meant.

Evidently he did, for he looked like he almost choked on his wine. "Drag Queen Barbie?" he repeated, as though he could not quite believe what he had just heard.

Lorna burst out laughing, almost tipping over her cup again. "Your face," she said, struggling to speak. "If the comparison fits…I think I'm going to keep a big bag've cheese with me, just in case you go crazypants again."

"I wish I did not understand your logic, Dilthen Ettelëa – go back to the healing wards, before Galasríniel notices you are gone. I will leave your pretty Ratiri alone."

She threw a cheese at him.

* * *

Legolas could have wept with relief when they finally reached the edge of the Woodland Realm. Four more days and he would be home. The fact that the forest was still standing had to be a good sign, too.

Lady Galadriel remained quiet, but he would swear she was _amused_ by something. Only faintly, but it was there.

She must have read his expression, for she said, "I worry for your father, but…not right now."

Legolas didn't know if he should be relieved or disturbed. He could not imagine what his father might be doing that could amuse the Lady of Lothlórien, but at least it probably wasn't anything destructive.

* * *

Geezer really, really wished he spoke the Dwarves' lingo. They might not have guns, but they had some pretty impressive axes, and he wanted to ask more about them than Arandur was able to translate.

The kid, even though he wasn't fully fluent in English, was invaluable. If geezer had a question, Arandur would translate it to Dwalin (and how weird was that, talking to an actual character he'd actually read about), then translate the answer back.

They wandered through the forges, past Dwarves who were so intent on their work that they ignored the trio utterly. The heat made Geezer sweat like a pig, though neither Arandur nor Dwalin even seemed to notice it, the bastards.

He spotted a Dwarf crafting a beautifully intricate gold chain, and they paused to watch him work. He would pour melted gold into a crucible, letting it run into the finest of grooves in a block of stone. When it had somewhat solidified, but was still malleable, he passed the wire through a succession of tiny holes bored in another piece of stone, until he was left with something barely the thickness of a thread, which he expertly bent into a shape very like a Celtic knot. Geezer highly doubted anyone on Earth could have done it by hand.

He wanted to ask about it, but the edges of his vision began to smear, light-tracers following every movement of his eyes. _Dammit_. "I need to go back to my room," he told Arandur, his voice strained with urgency. "_Now_."

The Elf gave him a startled look, and turned to speak to Dwalin.

Geezer started staggering back the way they had come, not waiting for the Dwarf to answer. Of all the times for his curse to hit, it just had to be _now_.

Arandur caught his elbow, his grip surprisingly strong for such a skinny person. Much as Geezer didn't want to have to lean on him, he didn't have much choice.

"This is gonna get ugly," he said, "but it won't kill me." Pain lanced through his head like a red-hot roofing nail, temporarily blinding him, and he would have fallen to his knees if not for Arandur.

"What is it?" the Elf asked.

"My curse. It's not fun, it's not pretty, and it's hardly ever any use. I don't like people watching it happen, but I need you to make sure I don't hit my head on anything." Roiling nausea joined the pain, and he hoped he wasn't going to toss his cookies all over this shiny floor. His room wasn't far – he wouldn't have to hold it in much longer.

By the time they reached it, his vision was so shot that he couldn't even open the door. Arandur had to do that, and help him lay on the floor without falling. Thank God there was some kind of bearskin rug he could lay on; having a seizure on a stone floor would just make this even worse.

He would have collapsed on it if Arandur hadn't helped him down. Not moving made the nausea less insistent, but his vision was darkening by the second –

_As ever, it started with wind – a scorching wind that seemed to come from every direction at once. At first there was only darkness, but a vision slowly coalesced._

_He was looking at a city of white stone: a seven-leveled city ringed with smooth walls. Gondor, if he remembered correctly. Though it was day, the sky above swirled with dark clouds that threatened lightning._

_The vision shifted to a large hall, with a floor of polished slate and rows of massive pillars. At the far end was a succession of steps, atop which was a dais with an ornate throne. Below it, at the foot of the staircase, was a smaller chair, plain black, occupied by a man who looked to be maybe Geezer's age, tall and strong, with slightly long, salt-and-pepper hair. The Steward, Geezer realized. Since Bard was still alive and kicking, this couldn't be Denethor – it had to be his father, whatever the hell that man's name was._

_The room was not very well-lit; shadows lingered in the corners, and when his vision focused on an anomaly in the dimness, his heart almost stopped. A figure lurked in the shadows, silent, seemingly unseen by the Steward._

_Von Ratched's age was hard to guess – he was probably about forty, far too tall, with a face that looked like it had been chiseled out of unyielding stone, and the palest grey eyes Geezer had ever seen. Cold eyes, that every so often would catch and refract the light like a cat's. He was dressed very simply, all in black, hiding in the shadows like the puppet-master he was._

_His expression was idle, but Geezer knew better – he was rooting through someone's mind. Or maybe several someones._

_The problem with Geezer's vision was that they came with no timeline. This could be next week, or next year. Hell, maybe it had already happened – Gondor was far south, wasn't it? Maybe they didn't get much snow._

_Trust fucking Von Ratched to land in a place far away from any Elves. Trust him to find a way around the language barrier. Trust him to sneak into power at the first opportunity._

The vision shattered, leaving Geezer gasping on the floor. Such horror gripped him that it was all he could do not to puke.

No. No, no, _no_. They were supposed to be _safe_ here, dammit, safe literally a world away from that bastard.

He looked up at Arandur, who was watching him with a concern that bordered on terror. "We," he said, his voice so hoarse he could barely speak, "are _fucked._"

* * *

Dun dun dunnnn. Geezer's right – they really, really _are_ screwed. Von Ratched's not stupid – he'll know better than to go near any Elves, or wizards. In his canon he is A.) way older than he looks, and B.) the most powerful of the cursed on the planet, having been one of the few, like Geezer, who was born with their ability. His superficial resemblance to Thranduil is totally coincidental, but I'll use it, because I can.

Title means "The coming storm" in Irish. What Thranduil calls Lorna, 'Dilthen Ettelëa', means 'Little Stranger', because he is a dick and likes reminding her that she is in fact very short.


	22. Chruthú

In which Thranduil uses both healing and teaching Lorna as an excuse to annoy her (and get revenge for her not allowing him to pick Ratiri's brain), Tauriel and Company make it home (and wonder what the hell they should do now that they're there), and Geezer decides he'll go to Mirkwood to warn Thranduil (and everyone thinks he's insane).

* * *

When Lorna woke, she immediately wished she hadn't. Though the room was dim, when she briefly opened her eyes, the light seemed to stab into her brain like laser-beams. She should have known better than to drink so much of that ungodly wine. With a truly pathetic groan, she pulled her other pillow over her head, wondering how long she'd have to sleep again before she could kill this morning-after.

"You have only yourself to blame."

The voice startled her so badly that she flailed, and actually fell off the other side of the bed, taking most of the blankets and both pillows with her. Hitting the floor made pain explode through her head like a supernova, and she almost sicked up all over her bedding.

"Son've a motherless whore," she croaked, managing to haul herself up enough to peer over the mattress. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"

Thranduil sat in her armchair, looking so smug, amused, and hangover-free that she could have murdered him. "If you want to learn anything, you must be conscious before I can teach you."

Lorna shut her eyes, counting to ten. No matter how annoying he was, throwing her washbasin at the King of the Elves was probably a bad idea. "I didn't realizes you meant to start now," she said at last.

"There is no time like the present," he said in English, sounding so pleased with himself that she groped for the jug anyway, but succeeded only in knocking it to the floor with a clang, and spilling water all over her blankets in the process.

She cracked open an eye, just enough to glare at him. "I hate you."

"So you have said," he observed dryly. "Quite often. Did you dream about your pretty man?"

Oh, for fuck's sake. "I don't have to take this," she said, and crawled under her bed, taking the driest of her blankets with her. She'd already known she was never living _that_ one down – she could only pray he wouldn't tell Ratiri. If Thranduil decided to be a cockblock, she really _would_ kill him.

She'd forgot about Elves and their stupid superhuman strength, though. He lifted the entire bedframe, and gave her a look that was thoroughly unimpressed. "Drink this," he ordered, setting a small bottle of green glass on the floor in front of her. "Then turn yourself into something approximating an actual Edain. Today I will begin teaching you mental defense."

"Hate," Lorna mumbled, taking the bottle and fumbling to pull the cork out. "So much hate." Trying to drink while lying on her stomach wasn't easy, and she choked at how potent the liquid was. It was the same morning-after cure that Arandur had given her, tasting like cinnamon and vanilla, and it sent to work almost immediately.

"Okay, maybe a little less hate," she said, shoving the bottle vaguely in his direction. "Where are we doing this?"

"In one of the larger chambers in this ward. If anything goes wrong, the healers are already here."

"That?" she grunted, sitting up and trying to claw her hair out of her face. "Not encouraging."

"Perhaps not, but it is honest. Galasríniel will show you where you must go." He and his fabulous robe swept out into the corridor.

"What did I do to deserve this?" she grumbled. Because she'd slept on her hair wet, it was a nightmare; all she could do was braid it to get it out of her way. She only had the one dress – fortunately, it wasn't very wet; unfortunately, it still smelled like wine. Oh well. All she had to do was wash her face with what little water was left in the pitcher, and brush her teeth with the twig Galasríniel had thankfully left for her. Even with the anti-morning-after cordial, breakfast was not to be thought of, so she went out to find the healer.

Galasríniel, looking very nervous, hovered not far from her door. "Lorna, you do not have to do this," she said quietly.

"I sort've do. I can't just go around at the mercy've my curse for the rest've my life, and I think Thranduil's the only one crazy enough to risk teaching me."

The poor healer looked torn, but she had to see that Lorna had a point. "Be wary, Lorna," she said, after a long pause. "I do not know that you can trust the King."

"Oh, I don't," Lorna said. "But I don't see that I've got much choice, and it'll keep him from trying to hunt down Ratiri. I met him last night. He's nice." She wasn't going to tell Galasríniel that Thranduil had crashed the party; it might give the poor elleth heart failure, Elf or not.

"How was he?" Galasríniel asked.

"Worried," she sighed. "But glad to be away from Earth. I think it's gone…bad…back there." She devoutly hoped she wouldn't somehow get chucked back to Earth as suddenly and unceremoniously as she'd been dumped here.

Galasríniel shook her head. "I do not know what _this_ world is coming to, but we cannot keep the King waiting."

Lorna was tempted to do just that; she certainly didn't hurry along her way. When they passed the rows of sleepers, she noticed that a few were gone, so she asked what happened.

"They woke. Someone drugged the King's favorite wine, no doubt to keep him here, but many others drank from the barrel as well."

Lorna just barely choked down a laugh. It was a damn good idea – shame it hadn't worked for very long.

Galasríniel led her to a room furnished with two armchairs, a table, and the smaller sort of bed that short-term patients rested on. Like everywhere in the wards, it smelled like herbs, but this wasn't one she could identify: sharp and bitter, stinging in her sinuses until she sneezed. Twice.

"I hope you will not continue doing that," Thranduil said, lining up glass bottles along the edge of the table. They were all different sizes and colors, and instinct told her it was probably best not to ask what was in them. Probably rat spleen, or something like that.

"Pardon me for being human," she said, and sneezed again.

The parting look Galasríniel gave her was so anguished that she almost laughed. She didn't trust Thranduil with most things, but she _did_ trust that he wouldn't invade her brain again just yet, considering, you know, death.

"I will, but others may not. Sit."

Lorna sat, having to hop a little to actually get her arse on the chair. Her bare feet dangled well above the floor – did all Elven furniture _really_ have to be so oversized? Was it a requirement?

"I am going to build you a wall," Thranduil said, handing her a red bottle before taking a seat facing her. "It is not a thing I could instruct you to do – you could not do it yourself. Drink that."

"What is it?" she asked, not bothering to hide her dubiousness.

"Necessary," he said, and then, seeing more was needed, "it will calm your mind. I promise you that I will not enter it, but it may well perceive anything I do as an attack."

Because _that_ didn't sound threatening. Down it she did, though, and almost gagged at the bitter taste. At least she somehow managed to avoid throwing the bottle at him when he smirked at the face she made. "Sure as hell doesn't _taste_ very relaxing. Now what?"

"Now we wait."

"For how long?"

"For however long it _takes_, you aggravating woman. Watch the fire, and allow your mind to be still."

Lorna never had been very good at that unless drugs were involved, but she tried. It did seem to be working a bit, too; her inner tension, still lingering from her nightmare and the near-disaster of last night, eased a little. "Why are you doing this?" she asked, looking at him. "Why are you helping me?"

Thranduil did his best statue impression, rendering him almost impossible to read. "I will not feed you pretty lies," he said. "Such is not my nature, and I know you would see through them. You have immense potential, Lorna – while you will never compare to a mature Elf, you could well become very powerful. I wish to train you because I want to see what will happen."

It was such a _Thranduil_ thing to say that she actually believed him. She didn't know just what he would count as 'potential', but she'd probably find out.

Her eyes wandered back to the fire, watching its dance of red and gold. The aftertaste of the stuff she'd drank was even worse than the taste, but she was starting to not care. This wasn't like being on drugs; she was still fully alert and aware, but all her worries and fears and annoyances had been blocked off, sealed away somewhere they couldn't bother her. When Thranduil spoke, even his voice didn't irritate her.

"I need you to think of something you love, or have loved," he said. "Your mother, or Liam. If you can find a memory that gives you more joy than pain, hold into it. The emotions of the Edain rarely run as deep as those of the Eldar, but you need a foundation for your defenses, so you must find the most potent memory you have."

Well, that was easier said than done. Her memories of Liam no longer hurt, but if she focused too closely on any of them, they would. A happy memory without pain…well, she could think of one that was damn appropriate. "Okay," she said. "Focusing."

_It had been a hot summer night – or at least, hot by Dublin standards. Da was gone at the pub, thank Christ, so Mam had gathered the lot of them in the lounge – Lorna, Mick, Siobhan, and Kevin, all ranged on the floor while she sat on the couch._

_"This is a book your gran gave me when I was a girl," Mam said. "It's called 'The Hobbit'."_

_"What's a hobbit?" Kevin asked, picking at a scab on his big toe._

_"Shut your gob and we'll find out," Siobhan said._

_Mam smiled. Her green eyes, so like Lorna's, held light in them for once. They only ever did when Da was gone. "That you will," she said, opening the book. It was old and battered, the corners of the paperback cover blunted by time and use._

_"In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell; nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole, with nothing to sit down on or to eat. It was a hobbit-hole, and that means comfort."_

_"Could you really live in a hole?" Kevin asked, and Lorna kicked him._

_"Obviously hobbits can," she said. "Now shut it, I want to know what one is."_

_"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole," Mam read on, "painted green, with a shiny yellow brass knob in the exact middle. The door opened onto a tube shaped hall like a tunnel."_

_"Hang up, I thought it said he lived in a hole, not a tunnel," Siobhan said, and Kevin elbowed her._

_"If I can't interrupt, you can't, either," he said. _

_"If you don't both stuff it, I'll smother you with the sofa cushions," Mick growled._

_Mam arched a red eyebrow, and all four of them squirmed. "A very comfortable tunnel without smoke, with paneled walls, and floors tiled and carpeted, with lots and lots of pegs for hats and coats – for the hobbit was fond of visitors."_

_"Why can't we live in a hole?" Kevin asked._

_"I'll stuff you in a hole, if you don't shut it," Lorna said darkly._

_"The tunnel wound on and on, going fairly but not quite straight into the side of the hill -"_

"Lorna. It is done."

She blink, her consciousness jerking back to the present. It had been ages since she'd really, truly thought of that memory, and only now did it fully hit her that she would never seen her brothers and sister again. Mairead, her half-sister, was much elder, and Lorna hadn't even met her until after Liam died. While it had been years since she'd seen Mick or Siobhan or Kevin, she'd at least had the option of finding them. No matter what trouble they'd all got into when they were older, at one point they'd all been children listening to their Mam tell a story –

Lorna drew a deep breath, steadying herself. Whatever Thranduil had done, she didn't feel any different, and she said as much.

"You will notice a great difference the next time someone tries to enter your mind," he said. "It is a defense that will feed and strengthen from your emotions." He paused. "I realize you will likely hit me for this, but what were you remembering?"

She did indeed kind of want to kick him, but not enough to act on the urge. "Did you get the memory where my Mam read my brothers and sister and I _The Hobbit_?"

"Yes," he said dryly. "Needless to say, I was quite confused. I can see why you chose it, however."

Lorna sighed, feeling weirdly drained for not having done anything. "I need a drink," she said.

"Well, the only one you will get is this," he said, rising to grab another bottle. "We must heal your mind."

"And then what?" she asked, hoping that whatever was in this bottle wouldn't taste as nasty as what had been in the first.

Thranduil gave her a smirk that for once wasn't smug – this one was downright evil. "Then I teach you to read. And, if necessary, to attack."

* * *

Well, they'd lost. Tauriel soon realized that Thranduil had reached the halls already – which left her wondering what in Eru's name they were meant to do now.

All five of them sat in a row on a log, watching the stars come out in silence. Tauriel could sneak them in easily enough, but finding Lorna and sneaking out again would be all but impossible. Add in the fact that they were all beyond exhausted, and did not have anything like proper medical supplies…

"We may as well face the King," Sadronniel said gloomily. She was staring at the tips of her boots. "I do not think that even now he would stoop to kinslaying. Imprisonment, for a time, and then banishment come spring. I would see my home one last time, before I must leave it forever."

Beleg and Menelwen seemed to agree, but Faelon looked as though he couldn't care less if he ever saw the inside of the halls again.

"Well, I at least have to," Tauriel said grimly. "I did technically commit treason, after all. And part of me needs to see just what has happened in my absence." She really was morbidly curious to know just how many had been felled by her potion, and who; she'd wondered for decades just who was stealing the King's wine. She'd have put money on Galion.

She also needed to know if any more Edain had turned up – and what Thranduil had done to them if they had. Even now she held hope that her King was not beyond redemption, but if he had done to another what he did to Lorna, that hope would prove a foolish one. At least Legolas would return at some point, and with any luck bring Lady Galadriel with him. She was likely the only one who could sort out this mess.

Right. Tauriel stood, heading for the stables before she could lose her nerve. She rapped a code on the stable gate, and was admitted by a very startled guard.

"Captain Tauriel," he said. "Where have you _been_? We've looked everywhere for you."

"That," she said, "is a long and rather unpleasant story. What have I missed while I was away?"

The guard, Thalion, sighed. "That too is a long and unpleasant story – and a bizarre one. I suppose you wish to see the King?"

"No," she said, "I do not, although I will have to at some point. First I need to see what is going on."

Beleg, Sadronniel, and Menelwen followed her in, with Faelon a little behind – probably simply because he didn't wish to be left out. Depending on how things went from here, he might come to wish he had been.

"There is another Edain," Thalion whispered, as he shut the gate behind them. "For now we are hiding him in the guards' wing, but with the King home, I do not know _what_ we will do. Perhaps we can smuggle him to Dale."

"Bard would kill us," Menelwen said. "Do you know anything of Lorna?"

"She looked well enough, when the King brought her in. Covered in warg blood, but she seemed unharmed herself."

Covered in – Tauriel decided she didn't want to know. "Where is she now?"

"The healing wards – Galasríniel sent word to the guard that there is something wrong with Lorna's brain, but she is in no immediate danger. If you mean to take her back to Dale, you must wait until she has been healed."

That…might be possible. Tauriel, being Captain, was the only one who really _needed_ to face the King's wrath. The others could sneak Lorna and this new Edain back to Dale – or more likely, Erebor. Dale was demonstrably not safe, but not even Thranduil could break into Erebor.

So now there was a fourth…would the three kingdoms eventually be overrun with these strangers? The population of Lorna's world was staggeringly immense; even an eight of it would make most societies in Middle-Earth collapse. A billion newcomers, even if their arrivals were stretched out across decades, might be more than all of Arda could endure.

She turned to the others. "As I am sure to be stripped of my rank as your captain, I cannot order you to do anything," she said. "I will, however, ask you to let me take the punishment alone, so that you can take Lorna and this second Edain to safety as soon as possible." Eru only knew what sort of state the other one would be in – if Thranduil had found time to violate his mind, he would likely be traumatized.

After a moment, the four nodded. Likely they were speculating as to what Thranduil might do to her, but there were really only two options: imprisonment, or banishment. Even mad as he was, she doubted he would resort to torture. She dearly hoped not, anyway.

Straightening her back, she walked through the far door and into the halls. Whatever she was to face, she would not be a coward about it.

* * *

Ratiri, amazingly, was actually bored.

There were books in this flat, but he could read none of them. The Elf, Elladan, showed him how to sharpen a sword, but that could not keep him occupied forever.

In a way, though, boredom was a relief. After almost half a year of constant tension, of chronic fear that each day would be his last, it was nice to even have the opportunity to be bored.

Of course, there was fear here, too – fear of that madman, who was evidently these people's _King_, and who apparently wanted to do him harm in some fashion. It could not simply be because he was human – the little woman, whose name he wished he knew – seemed unafraid that the King would hurt _her_. Well, until she slapped him. Then she had looked, if only momentarily, like she was certain she was going to die.

"Why does your king want to hurt me?" he asked Elladan.

The Elf sighed, and seemed to grope for enough English to explain. "Is not that he want to hurt you," he said. "Hurt is…incident?" Ratiri took that to mean 'incidental'. "He want what you know of your world. He will take."

Ratiri felt the blood drain from his face. A telepath. _Another_ one. Was he doomed to have his mind violated, no matter what world he was in?

But no – he had people here who would try to protect him. This was not the same, and he couldn't let fear rule him here. No matter how easy that would be. "How long must I hide?"

"Until we get you out," Elladan said. "Safe other places."

"What about the woman? Small woman, very long hair?"

"Lorna?" Elladan asked. "Her too. I will take you to Erebor, then, in spring, you come with me. You are safe at Imladris."

Imladris. Rivendell, if Ratiri remembered his _Lord of the Rings_ correctly. He was still having immense difficulty accepting that he'd come to bloody _Middle-Earth_, but after the curses and Von Ratched, it wasn't so impossible to believe.

And his curse made this world so beautiful – or rather, it made the _people_ beautiful, more so than they already were. Had it not landed him in the Institute, Ratiri would have counted his curse a gift: he saw the auras of living beings, and if he tried hard enough, he could manipulate them.

Humans usually had one or two colors, the brightness fluctuating from person to person. All the Elves he had seen so far had dozens of hues of often four or more colors, swooping and diving in a glow that was so bright it sometimes hurt to look at them.

Elladan's was many shades of autumn – the deep gold of a waning October day, mingled with all the gradations of red and orange that could be found on a maple tree that had just turned its leaves. Human auras seemed dull and lifeless by comparison.

Well, most of them. Lorna's had been rather odd – it had contained a chaotic rainbow, and while it wasn't as bright as an Elf's, it was brilliant for a human. Perhaps the five months she had spent in Middle-Earth had changed it somehow.

He hoped she was all right. Slapping the King couldn't possibly have earned her any favors, but if she was willing to throw cheese at him, she couldn't be _that_ afraid of him. Knowing what Ratiri did now, he realized she'd been saving him from an awful fate. He wondered if she knew_ how_ awful.

_I hope not._ He wouldn't wish telepathic rape on anyone.

* * *

Geezer had recovered enough to start wondering what the hell was going on. He limped off in search of Arandur, but didn't manage to find the kid until Elrohir led him to Dain's study.

"The hell are they arguing about?" he asked – he didn't need to understand the words to know that was exactly what was going on. The volume alone could have told him that.

Elrohir sighed. "We must warn King Thranduil," he said. "On that both agree. They do not agree who will go. Arandur want to, but he cannot. I need to take him to my home in spring."

"Can't he go and come back?"

Elrohir shook his head. "Thranduil is angry at his leave. If Arandur go, he will not return."

Geezer pondered this. "I'll go."

Elrohir's eyes widened, and he shook his head. He pounded on the door, and said something in his own language.

Dain opened the door, looking irritated as hell at being interrupted, but the anger left his expression when Elrohir said whatever it was he had to say. The pair of them all but dragged Geezer into the study, shutting and locking the door.

"Geezer, you cannot go to the Woodland Realm," Arandur said. "Neither you nor Katje. The Elvenking might well try to search your mind, and it would cause much harm. Already he had almost killed one of your kind this way."

Well, _that_ was a horrifying thought. "He's got one of us?"

Arandur nodded. "If she is still alive, yes. Looking in her mind made him lose his. I do not know what he might do to you."

Geezer pondered this. "Might be a good thing," he said. "Not for _me_, but for the rest of you. If he can actually see Von Ratched, see what he is, it might make him willing to get off his ass and do something." If getting his brain plundered would send someone out to squish Von Ratched like a bug, it would be worth it.

Dain said something that Arandur translated as, "You are risking suicide, or worse."

"Seen 'worse' already," Geezer muttered. "Look, _we_ can't move against Von Ratched, but he could, and if he's got even half a brain under his crazy, he will."

Arandur and Dain argued back and forth a bit, while Geezer waited patiently. He'd found it useful to be patient, because so many other people weren't.

Eventually, Arandur sighed. "Dain says that, as you are a free person, he cannot stop you, though he thinks you are mad. He will provision you for your journey."

"I will take you," Elrohir said, though he very plainly didn't want to. "Thranduil will not dare imprison me, and it may be he will behave if I am there."

He had a point. If Elrond was going to find out whatever Thranduil did, he'd probably think twice about brain-rape. "When can we head out?" Geezer asked.

"Not until tomorrow," Arandur said firmly. "You must rest. It will take several days, and you have been through…something."

Geezer snorted._ Something_ was about right. "Fine," he said. "I'll rest."

There remained one very pressing question: what the hell was he to tell Katje? She wouldn't trust him to go off on his own, even with Elrohir, but she was neither physically nor mentally prepared for such a trip – or what might wait at the end of it. She put on a good game face, but he knew she'd been traumatized by her time at the Institute – everybody there had been, including some of the staff. It had been obvious that not all o them had had any idea what they'd signed up for, and that had only gotten worse as time went on.

But he could no more stop her than Dain could stop him. Even if he'd been her father in truth, not just in spirit, she was a grown woman – though not by much, to him. He hoped to God he wouldn't be leading her into another prison – although it couldn't be worse than the Institute, because _nothing_ could be worse than the Institute.

* * *

Geezer, Katje, and Elrohir will be setting out just in time to run into Legolas and Galadriel at that front gate. Won't that be an interesting meeting.

Title means "Creation" in Irish

Reviews feed my soul, thus my mind, and thus this story.


	23. Abhaile

In which our villain has decided this isn't such a bad turn of fortune, Thranduil and Lorna are…well, _them_, and Tauriel discovers her homecoming is not such a terrible thing after all.

* * *

One of the main reasons Von Ratched had survived so very long was because he was very, very adaptable. He did not know how he had got here, or why, but he did not waste time on disbelief – not even when he discovered where 'here' was.

He could not help but waste a bit on sheer irritation, however. The Institute had been a golden opportunity to study curses and the magic that fueled them – but whatever magic lay in Middle-Earth was of a very different sort. There would be no construction of anything like a modern laboratory any time soon, either, which was beyond irksome.

Still, Minas Tirith was fascinating, if not what he wanted. It had been decades since he had read any of Tolkien's works, but his memory was such that he rarely forgot anything. He had taught himself the languages as an intellectual exercise – and been grudgingly impressed by the author's thoroughness – which served him well now. Reading someone's mind was of little use if one could not understand what they were thinking.

For now he wandered up the levels of the city, which seemed so small by his definition of the word. Though there was no snow, the air was bitterly cold, and he stole a cloak that was, annoyingly, much too short. In spite of the chill, the streets were thronged – guards in their armor, men and women carrying baskets of food and linen, and children everywhere. The smell of them was certainly prevalent, to his distaste; perhaps the first thing he would have to do was invent deodorant.

It took some searching to discover what year it was, but when he had, he knew that the steward he must find was Ecthelion, not Denethor.

He had fifty-five years before the War of the Ring, and a little less before Sauron began to rise to power in earnest. Without his longevity treatment – which he did not know now he could duplicate here – he would either be very old or dead by then. But if he could find a way, he thought he knew what he needed to do.

Arrogant Von Ratched might be, but he wasn't stupid. He knew he couldn't tackle Sauron on his own. He dared not even face one of the wizards yet, but he had an advantage – he knew how the story would play out. The Dark Lord would be defeated, and the very human, very controllable Aragorn would become King. True, his wife was an Elf, but that could be dealt with.

Von Ratched did not want to be King, or anything like it. He was and always had been a shadow-player, controlling at his whim. He would soon enough control all of Minas Tirith, though it would be none the wiser – and in time, all of Gondor would be his.

What would he do with it then? He did not know. Half the fun of any experiment was the uncertainty of the results.

* * *

Actually healing Lorna's brain entailed going back to her room, and fixing her mangled bed: this would make her sleep about a full day, or so Thranduil expected. The healers had to bring dry bedding, as most of hers was still damp thanks to her oh-so-graceful attempt at hurling the water jug.

Thranduil didn't need to read her mind to know she was nervous, try though she did not to show it. He knew her too well, in a way that was unfair, so he said nothing – if he tried to coddle her, she would only lash out at him. Not that he had the first clue how to _coddle_ anyone anymore. Her face was pinched, her skin ashy-pale, but her eyes were grim and determined.

"This should not hurt," he said, when she sat on the edge of her bed, "but it will likely feel strange. You will sleep, and when you wake, you can go find your pretty Ratiri."

Her left leg twitched, like she'd just barely restrained herself from kicking him. She didn't bother restraining her glower. "Cheese, Thranduil," she said. "Lots and lots of cheese."

"Hush, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "Lie down, and I will tell you a story while I work. I have not told a child a story since Tauriel was small."

"Not a child," she grumbled, but did ask instructed. "And if you make some crack about my height, I really _will_ kick you."

"But you make it so very easy," he said. "Now, this story is well-known to all Elves, but I will try to tell it in English."

Lorna arched an eyebrow. "_This_ ought to get interesting."

It probably would. The story was just to distract her – he would have put her to sleep if she didn't need to be capable of answering what she might have called cognitive questions, should they prove necessary.

"Once upon a time, there was an Elf named Fëanor," he said, pressing a paste of athelas on both her temples. "He was the greatest inventor who ever lived – he made the seven Palantíri, which are much like your cell phones, though far larger. This, however, is the story of how he crafted three lightbulbs that started wars and nearly destroyed Middle-Earth."

"Seriously?" she asked.

"Hush. Before the sun was made, all light came from the Two Trees in Valinor. Fëanor wanted to capture that light, so he crafted three jewels called Silmarils."

"I think there's a book called _The Silmarillion_ where I'm from."

"_Hush_. And eat this." He handed her a spoonful of crushed herbs suspended in syrup.

She looked incredibly dubious, but she ate it, and gagged. "_Jesus_, are you trying to poison me?"

"If I was, you would never know," he said, taking the spoon.

"Because that's not creepy," she muttered.

"For the last time, _hush_." This was worse than trying to tell Legolas _or_ Tauriel a story. "As I was saying, Fëanor crafted the Silmarils, and they were the most beautiful things ever made – so, of course, he lost them.

"Now, Fëanor had seven sons, which is almost unheard-of for an Elf. The swore an oath to the Valar that they would not rest until they had retrieved them all, even after their father's death. Oaths sworn so are binding; once they had pledged, there was no, as your people would put it, backing out.

"Why not?"

Exasperated, Thranduil gently flicked her between the eyes. "Because there is magic involved. Lives were lost, hands were lost – a disturbing number of them, now that I think of it – and in the end, Fëanor and six of his sons were dead, with the seventh wandering mad in Middle-Earth. For all anyone knows, he might still be alive. And, naturally, the Silmarils are also lost."

"That's depressing, and you're a crap storyteller."

"Yes, well, it kept your mind occupied. Sleep now, Dilthen Ettelëa. Elladan is guarding your pretty Ratiri, so you need not worry I will harm him."

"One've these days you'll fall asleep and wake up with no eyebrows," she said. "I'll find a way to make it happen."

"And yet you wonder why I call you a child. _Sleep_."

"Yes, Mother."

"I would think you would mean 'Father'."

"Not with that hair and that dress."

"It is a robe."

"Dress."

"Robe."

"_Dress_."

"Lorna," he said, giving her as stern a look as he could muster, "go the fuck to sleep."

* * *

Rarely in his life had Elladan seen anyone as deeply traumatized as Ratiri.

The man tried to hide it, and for the most part he succeeded, but Elladan had seen survivors of orc raids with eyes less haunted. What in Eru's name had been done to him? He needed a healer of the mind, and Elladan hoped Grandmother would arrive soon. Thranduil was not the only one who desperately needed help.

There was an odd quality of stillness to him, as though he feared the attention that movement might draw. At his height, attention was unavoidable; the only Edain Elladan had seen who were so tall were the Dúnedain. Ratiri often twitched at sudden movements, and outright flinched when he accidentally knocked a brass pitcher off a table.

Elladan wished he knew enough English to reassure the man – to tell him that help was coming, but as he did not, he did not dare say anything. He didn't want to give Ratiri the impression that he would gain the type of attention that could be dangerous.

The poor man had been pacing this last half hour, like a restless animal in a case. Elladan's weapons were all as sharp as they were going to be, so he made a decision.

"Come," he said. "We walk. You are safe with me." He did not know how to explain that as the son of another Elven lord, Thranduil would have to behave in front of him. Ratiri was just going to have to tryst him, and their acquaintance was still so new that he had little reason to do so.

However, it was clear he was going mad being so confined, and the wing that housed the guards was large. Even legs as long as Ratiri's could be stretched well by a walk through it, and though it was decorated simply, it would still be pleasing to his eyes after any kind of prison. As everywhere, the walls were carved like trees, each delicate leaf and branch rendered in exquisite detail. Some were inlaid with silver – work of the guards, when their work was slow and routine.

There were few enough _actual_ guards about, but all stopped to greet the pair, eying Ratiri curiously. His returning gaze was wary at first, but he must have realized that they meant him no harm. Elladan did not know what he saw when he looked at Elves, but even through his wariness, he was clearly fascinated. There was no way to ask what his curse was – not without knowing more English than Elladan possessed – but unlike Lorna, Ratiri's did not seem to be a detriment to him. Once it was safe for Lorna to speak with him, there was a great deal Elladan would have her ask.

Speaking of Lorna, he needed to discover where she was, and what – if anything – she was doing.

* * *

Despite the beauty of the landscape, Katje was not feeling particularly enthusiastic about this trip. Erebor might be loud, but it was warm and dry, and the food was excellent. Though of spending several days trekking through the snow was not a pleasant one, but she could hardly let him go off on his own – even if he would have that extremely attractive Elf with him. Elrohir did not know Geezer like she did, and would not know how to keep him out of trouble.

She was reluctant to stay behind her for her own sake, too. Geezer was the only person in this entirely world that she really knew; if something were to happen to him out there, she would be alone.

So she dressed warmly, in things borrowed from various humans and Elves, and put together a pack. Though she stayed in shape, she knew already she did not have the endurance level to move quickly through snow for any length of time. Geezer probably would, for all he was so much older than her; he was tougher than old shoe leather, as her grandfather would say. She would just have to try to keep up, or die of embarrassment.

* * *

_Once again, Lorna's dreams were odd and unsettling. Again she stood on the plane, but this time she truly was alone. Dream-logic told her she was searching for something, though she did not know what, or why._

_Not that there were many places for anything to die. The plane stretched unbroken to each horizon, without so much as a shrug to be seen. Like her last dream, she was barefoot, and the chunks of lava were sharp beneath her feet. Annoying, she was wearing her wine-stained dress here, too, still reeking of alcohol._

_After what she'd seen in the last dream, she ought to have been afraid – hell, she should be bloody terrified – but she wasn't. There was something in the air that felt like Earth, along with the sharp lightning scent of ozone and fried pennies. The voice last night had been right – a storm was coming, but she didn't fear it now. She had defenses, and sooner or later Thranduil would teach her how to go on the offensive, too – even if he'd also be an annoying twat about it. Should she meet someone like that doctor again, she wouldn't be at their mercy._

_No, she wasn't afraid – she was weirdly excited. All her life, the only way Lorna had avoided being kicked around was to kick first, but now she wouldn't have to._

_The scene abruptly shifted, and left her standing in what looked like the corridor to a hospital – pale tile floor, blinding white walls, harsh fluorescent overhead lights. A line of people moved past, apparently totally blind to her, but their clothes looked unsettlingly like prison uniforms. Their expressions ranged from haunted to traumatized, and she had no idea what to make of it. This was not something she had seen in life, but the detail was unnervingly real, right down to the scent of floor wax._

_Something tapped her shoulder, and when she turned, she found the doctor not a hand's-breadth behind her. His horrible pale eyes were gone, the yawning black holes in their place seeming to suck at her soul –_

_She punched him. Hard._

_The force of the blow rocked him backward, and his granite expression turned murderous, but she hit him again, even harder._

_"You'll haunt me anymore, you bastard," she said, slamming her fist into her throat, "and you'll not hurt me again."_

She woke with a start, and wished she need not have. That was a dream she could have enjoyed, after her own warped fashion.

The problem with living in a cave without clocks was that she was never sure just what time it was. The Elves all seemed to instinctively know, but she'd always relied on them. As a result, she had no idea how long she had been asleep.

Galasríniel or someone must have been by, because a fresh dress had been laid out on her armchair – one that didn't look like it would be quite so huge on her. If only there were some trousers to go with it. It too was green, but darker, embroidered in silver, and Lorna had a suspicion it had once belonged to some Elf child – wherever their children were.

No matter where it had come from, it was clean, so she shrugged into it. There was some kind of lacing nonsense, but it looked ornamental, so she let it be. She was hungry _and_ she had a mission, but she needed a bag to complete the latter. She hadn't been kidding about throwing cheese at Thranduil whenever he started losing his marbles.

Nobody stopped her when she wandered out of the healing wards, but there were also few around to see her. At least this time the rest of the caverns weren't so creepily silent – there were a few people, mostly guards, out and about. Hurrying down a flight of stairs, she snagged Huoriel.

"I need a bag," she said. "Hi, by the way. Sorry. Did that the wrong way 'round, but I really do need a bag. And some cheese. And breakfast not related to cheese."

Poor Huoriel blinked, looking very like she'd seen a ghost – no doubt she'd expected Lorna to be a drooling vegetable somewhere. If this was going to be a common reaction, Lorna was going to kill Thranduil, because it had to be all his fault.

"Cheese, Huoriel," she said firmly. "Cheese now, explanation later."

* * *

Being able to move around helped Ratiri immensely, even if he barely understood a word anyone said. They'd been so often locked in their rooms at the Institute that any freedom of movement was welcome.

Elladan had brought him to the guards' kitchen, so that he might pick out his own dinner. It was a large room, but it was also very crowded. For once in his life, he didn't feel abnormally gigantic – he didn't think there was a person in here under six foot. Elladan himself was probably about six-three, and there was one in the corner that Ratiri thought might actually be taller than himself.

They were all staggeringly beautiful, but at the same time, there was an odd sense of similarity to them that he'd never seen in humans. Even humans who were all the same race could be short or tall, fat or thin, with straight hair or curly or somewhere in between. All the Elves he'd seen here tall and lithe and graceful – they were the definition of 'inhuman'.

What their physical appearance lacked in diversity, however, was more than made up for by their auras. He hadn't seen so many Elves in one place since his first day here, and he thought that this must be what a synesthete might experience on acid.

A voice at the level of his chest broke his reverie: "You're miles away." He looked down and saw that it belonged to Lorna – who, to his relief, seemed unharmed. "Is it your curse?"

He was wary of telling her – of saying anything at all about it. She might have saved his bacon, so to speak, but he didn't actually _know_ her.

She must have read his hesitance on his face. "It's okay," she said. "You haven't got to tell me. But if you do ever want to tell anyone down here, you're safe. Nobody'll rat on you to the King – he promised he'd stay away from you, but I don't trust him to hold to that. He's a bit mental."

"I hadn't noticed," Ratiri said dryly. "How do you do it? Live in a place that's so alien, without any other humans?"

Lorna looked as though the question made no sense. "Sure I hadn't got a choice, had I?" she asked. "I couldn't survive in the world outside, and most were kind enough to me here. It was a sight better than what I'd left behind on Earth, that was for bloody sure, even if I couldn't understand a damn word anyone said to me."

"How on Earth did you learn their language so well in only five months?"

Surprisingly, she looked away, visibly uncomfortable. "You've got your things you don't want to talk about," she said, "and I've got mine. I might tell you someday, but…not yet."

"Sorry," he said, feeling a bit wretched for upsetting her.

"It's fine," she assured him. "You couldn't know. Here, you're tall – help me a bit, will you ? I need some've the cheese on the top've the larder, and I'd rather not have to climb the shelves."

He debated asking why, but didn't bother – he was sure he'd find out sooner or later. The crowd had grown thick enough that he had a difficult time weaving his way through it; Lorna, it seemed, just pushed people out of the way. At her height, she probably had no choice.

She detoured to a lower cupboard, and rummaged around in it until she found a leather sack. When he took down a round of cheese, she put it in the sack.

"I want you to be able to walk about up above," she explained. "It's beautiful up there, and there's so much to explore. I want to show you around, and I told Thranduil I'd throw cheese at him if he went barmy again. I can keep him away from you."

"_How?_" Ratiri asked. All the Elves seemed rather alien, but none that he had met were even close to as terrifying as their King.

"That's related to the thing I can't talk about yet," she said, still adding cheese. "All I'll say is that it's related to my curse. I promise you you'll be safe with me."

She sounded totally convinced of it, and her unsettling eyes were serious as she looked up at him. If he wanted to go anywhere but the guards' wing (and God knew that he did), he'd have to trust her, but he didn't know if he could do that yet.

Before he could say anything, though, a guard burst into the room, looking as nervous as an Elf was probably capable of. He babbled something, and the entire lot of them froze – including Lorna.

"Oh, bloody hell," she said. "I'll be back. A friend've mine's just got home, and she'll be in a hell've a lot've trouble." She hoisted her sack of cheese over her shoulder, looking like some tiny female Father Christmas. "Stay here." She and half the guard hurried out of the room, leaving Ratiri to wonder what the hell was going on.

* * *

Tauriel did not want to admit it, even to herself, but she was terrified.

She wanted to trust that her King would not harm her. His temper was infamous, but never, ever had he laid a hand on any of his guards, no matter how enraged he became. Now, though…now he was even more unpredictable. Even when he held a sword to her throat, she had not believed he would really kill her – no more than she could have actually shot him, no matter that she pointed an arrow at his head. They were threats not to be acted upon, but now she as not so sure.

Nevertheless, she marched her way to the throne room – whatever her punishment, the King would surely want it to be public. An audience would not mitigate his wrath, but it would make her feel better.

And an audience would also make things easier for the rest of her party. The fewer people who were about when they went to collection Lorna and this other Edain, the better. She just hoped that the pair were not too traumatized to function.

She'd been wondering what sort of judgment she would face from the other guards, but it seemed she need not have. One by one, or in small groups, they joined her on her walk, following as she traversed the stairs and open paths. None said anything; their solidarity was silent, but somehow all the stronger for it.

At least, they were silent until, to Tauriel's great surprised, Lorna joined them – a Lorna who was hale and hearty, wearing a dress Tauriel recognized as one of her own from childhood, and carrying a large leather sack.

What.

"Don't ask," she said, to Tauriel's silent question. "You'll be fine."

"You cannot know that," Tauriel said, however much she wished she could believe it.

"Of course I can," Lorna said. "I've got cheese."

Tauriel was certain that the explanation behind that mystifying statement would take more time than she had left.

Someone must have warned the King of her arrival, for she found him already seated on his throne. Somehow, his lack of expression was more terrifying than any scowl – how deep had his madness grown?

Lorna gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze before disappearing into the crowd. Nobody could stand beside Tauriel, however much they might want to, but it was good to know that so many metaphorically stood behind her. It did not make Thranduil's non-expression any less frightening, but at least she was not alone.

She knew that the King would question her, and she also knew there was no point in being anything but totally honest. He would know if she lied – and in any event, there were things he needed to hear. He might not _listen_, but he would hear.

Even from a distance, she could see the instability lurking in his pale eyes, but it was greatly diminished. Perhaps his forced nap had cleared his mind a little.

"Where have you been, Tauriel?" he asked, his tone deceptively mild.

She swallowed, but met his gaze steadily. "Dale, my lord."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Why?"

"To find the others," she said, and then, before he could ask, "and because I knew you would banish me anyway, once you awoke."

Somebody – probably Lorna – choked on a laugh, but said nothing.

"And why did you drug us, Tauriel?" he asked, though he had to already know.

Tauriel stood straighter. "Because you have not been yourself, my lord," she said. "Because I feared the consequences of whatever actions you might take with your judgment so impaired. I feared you would start a war."

His eyes narrowed, but before he could speak, there came a very odd noise – quite like the wax being pried off a cheese.

Tauriel hazarded a glance to her right, and saw Lorna seated on the floor at Huoriel's feet. She was indeed unwrapping a cheese, and being unnecessarily loud about it. She seemed quite absorbed in her work, too, ignoring the puzzled looks of the guards, and the King's murderous glare. Tauriel had a feeling she had walked into a story well after its beginning.

"And where are the others?" Thranduil asked, which was clearly not what he had meant to say.

"I do not know, my lord." It was the truth, too; she did not know precisely where any of her four were.

"I know you did not return to this realm to face my judgment," he said, "so do not insult us both by lying. Why are you here?"

She took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. "To get her," she said, pointing at Lorna. "And the other Edain. I feared that you would do them both harm."

"Don't drag _me_ into this," Lorna said, now hammering the cheese on the floor to loosen the wax. She said something in English, something Tauriel roughly translated as, "Don't fault her for being honest."

Thranduil's mask-like expression didn't change, but something that might have been annoyance flickered in his eyes. He said something in Irish, which Tauriel only recognized because she could not understand a word of it, and yes, there was a trace of irritation in his voice. Lorna responded, also in Irish, tossing the half-peeled cheese from hand to hand.

The King didn't sigh, but it looked like he wanted to. "Tauriel, you will go nowhere," he said sternly. "And you will certainly not remove either of my Edain, nor any more that might join them."

"_Your_ Edain?" Lorna said, and only now did Tauriel realized she was speaking perfect Sindarin. "Ratiri and I aren't anybody's. Human beings are not spoons, Thranduil. I know you were drunk when I made the threat about the cheese, but I mean it." As if to underscore her point, she whacked the cheese on the floor again, finally cracking the last of the wax.

She – what? Tauriel didn't _begin_ to know how to start questioning that. She was too busy cringing at how informally Lorna addressed the King, but he didn't seem to bat an eyelash at it.

"Dilthen Ettelëa, all who live in my realm are my people. That is how kingship works."

"Yeah, well, Drag Queen Barbie, I come from a republic." She finished peeling the cheese, stuffing the pieces of rind into her bag. Tauriel didn't understand some of her words, but 'Drag Queen Barbie' seemed more insult than epessë. _What_ had happened since Lorna was abducted? She was very obviously not dying, and she clearly had no fear that the King would hurt her, or she would not speak to him so. Perhaps Tauriel was the one who was going mad.

"Oh, go find your pretty man," Thranduil said. "Tauriel, if you attempt to leave with either of them, I will hunt you down."

Lorna's expression turned absolutely murderous, and for a moment Tauriel was afraid she would actually throw the cheese at the King. She said something in English, something about how he was lucky there was a crowd, and then practically dragged Tauriel away by her sleeve.

"Lorna," Tauriel said, a little helplessly, "where do I begin?"

"You don't," she said, still looking ready to kill someone. "It's a long story, and I was drunk for part of it. And unconscious for another part. And there were some wargs, and sword theft, and then I sicked up on Thranduil's boot. You sort've had to be there. What you've got to do now is meet Ratiri. He really _is_ pretty, though if you tell him I said so, I'll find a way to murder you with cheese."

* * *

Poor Tauriel. She'll figure things out eventually.

An epessë is basically an Elvish nickname, either given to oneself, or by someone else. Thranduil's been saddled with Drag Queen Barbie whether he likes it or not.

Title means "Homecoming" in Irish.

Reviews are love. Everybody loves love.


	24. Inseolacháin

In which all our assorted travelers reach the Woodland Realm, Katje and Geezer wonder just what the hell they've got themselves into, Thranduil tests his ability to be around other humans without wanting to mind-rape them (and only half-passes thanks to a well-thrown cheese) and he and Lorna get in a bit of a tiff (which makes the cheese get thrown extra hard).

This chapter is also quite long, and contains the memory of Lorna's husband's death. While there's no blood, there's a reason it traumatized her so much.

* * *

Arandur would not have thought he could be homesick, but he was. Not for the Woodland Realm itself, but for its people. So long as he had had the others with him, this trip had been fun, but now he was the only Elf left in Dale or Erebor, and he found he did not like it at all.

Everyone, even the Dwarves, were more than welcoming, always happy to tell or show him anything he wanted to know, but it was not the same on his own. While the very idea of returning to Thranduil's halls was madness, it was more and more tempting.

When he finally said as much to King Dain, the Dwarf sighed and shook his head. "You're a fool, laddie, but I understand. I only hope you know what you're doing."

Arandur smiled. "King Dain, I have not known what I was doing since I first set foot outside my lord's halls," he said, "and I have managed so far. I cannot leave my friends to suffer punishment alone. I might not be a warrior, but I would like to think I am not a coward."

"That you most definitely are not," Dain said. "You're also not sane, either, but if you hurry you can catch up with those three. Maybe you'll have safety in numbers."

Arandur doubted it, but it was a nice thought.

* * *

The Lady Galadriel was wise beyond measure. She never did anything without a reason, and Legolas trusted her implicitly. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but wonder why she shifted their destination, and insisted that they go to the stable-gate rather than the front.

"Others are coming," she said, in answer to the question he did not ask. "Others we should meet with, before we see your father. I am now far less worried for him than I was."

"But still you worry," he said, ducking a branch that sagged with the weight of over four feet of snow.

"His madness lingers," she said, "but for now it is contained. The trouble is that it relies on external forces. I must cure him of that reliance, if I can."

_If_ she could? That did not bode well. Still, if his father's strange insanity was caged, they could get him to the Grey Havens, if that was the only option left to them. Eru, let it not come to that. Legolas could not remember his mother – to lose his father might well be too much for him to bear. "Who are these people we seek?"

"One of my grandsons," she said, "and two more from your Edain's world. I do not yet know what is bringing them here, but they will not be the last."

A twin and two Edain? Why in Eru's name would either of them bring Edain_ into_ the Woodland Realm? He hoped they had a good explanation, or someone was going to get hit.

* * *

Menelwen had not expected to have their mission so unceremoniously cut short – and by one of their quarry, no less. Lorna, nibbling some cheese, insisted that all was more or less well, and that there was another Edain she needed to come meet.

She had not been at all prepared for such an outcome, and it left her bewildered. The guards who had remained here these last weeks seemed to find nothing at all odd in it. She was led down into the guards' wing when she met up with Faelon and Sadronniel, was introduced to an extraordinarily attractive Edain man, had bread and cheese shoved into her face, and all in all, wondered if the entire population had gone as mad as their King.

To her relief, the other Edain – Ratiri – had not been harmed, though according to Lord Elladan, he was going a bit stir-crazy.

The entire point of this exercise had been to grab him and Lorna and run back to Dale, but Lorna evidently didn't mind staying, and the King would probably be terrifyingly displeased if anyone made off with Ratiri.

So…now what?

She fetched up next to Ratiri, who was watching the throng with a mix of fascination and nervousness. Somebody had given him a cup of wine, which he wisely sipped slowly.

He really was quite handsome – his complexion was like that of an Easterling, even more so than Lorna's, his face like that of a statue given life. Lorna seemed to think so, too, though she was being surprisingly subtle about it.

Menelwen hid her smile by biting a piece of bread. Perhaps the King was still mad, but the results were not so bad as she had feared.

* * *

Lorna had hoped to take Ratiri exploring the next day, and find out from Tauriel what was going on outside. Naturally, Thranduil had to rain on _that_ parade and tell her they'd be working on her mind reading abilities, now that her defenses were set up.

Part of her wanted to shine, but she knew that was what he would expect, and would probably have some scathing remark ready for when she did. So she sighed, and met him in one of the healing-rooms.

"Are you expecting me to attack you today?" she asked, and did not add, _because I'd happily do it, you total cockblock_. That was pretty much implied. "And I'll not go trying to read anyone's mind. I already drove _you_ crazy. One cracked Elf is enough."

"You did no such thing," he said, handing her a bottle – blue glass this time.

"What, you were _already_ mental? Now that I'd believe." She uncorked the bottle and sniffed its contents, because she still wasn't sure he wasn't somehow poisoning her.

He sighed. "One day I will disabuse you of your delusion that you are in any way amusing."

"Try saying that ten times fast," she said, taking a sip off the bottle. This one didn't taste bad at all: minty, with a kick. "But seriously, I won't go infecting anyone else, and I've already got a lot've what's in your head."

"'A lot' is not 'all'," he said, taking the seat facing her. "I will call up a memory, and you will attempt to read it. The way your curse acts around other Edain would suggest that you do not need to touch your target, so you need not bother with that."

Well, that was a bit of a relief. "So I do what? Just…focus?"

"More or less. You will know it when you feel it."

"That's what she said."

Thranduil closed his eyes, as though he were in actual, physical pain. "I am not sure the chaos you might cause is worth this."

"Hey, you started it. Fine, fine, I'll focus." It was a bit difficult, since what she really wanted to laugh at his pain, but she could do it.

She felt quite foolish at first, staring into the fire and trying to calm her own thoughts. Her mind wandered, searching for something that was not her own –

And found it.

_Mirkwood had not always been Mirkwood – once it had been Greenwood the Great, and she saw it now at the height of its splendor. The massive trees were alive and strong, their leaves a bright canopy rather than an oppressive roof. The trunks were carpeted with moss, on which small white wildflowers grew. It was spring in this memory, and the whole floor of the forest was crowded with flowers of all sorts and colors – some big and bright, others small and delicate. The air was more pure than anything Lorna herself had ever breathed, smelling of moss and clean damp earth. All of it was beaded with dewdrops that glittered like prisms in the light of the rising sun._

_A child was running toward her, a tiny boy with white-blond hair, and though the memory was filled with joy, Lorna was slammed with a jolt of old pain._

She jerked herself out of the memory, reaching deep into her own psyche for something like equanimity. He couldn't possibly have the memory of hers, the one that made his hurt so much. Even Thranduil wasn't _that_ insensitive. Christ, she needed a drink or five.

"That was lovely," she said, pleased that her voice was level. "I had no idea Mirkwood had ever been like that."

He was looking at her rather strangely, and she swore inwardly, even as she kept an iron grip on her poker face. He'd touched, hopefully unknowingly, on a very bitter wound, but that didn't mean she had to admit it, to him or anyone else. "Lorna, I did not mean to upset you."

"Who says you've upset me?" she said. "It was a beautiful memory, and very clear, but reading it's worn me out, and I'd like to rest now."

"_Lorna_," he said again, and though she'd probably imagined the imperiousness in his tone, she lashed out anyway.

"Your child," she said, hopping off her chair. "Legolas, when he was so small – you know Liam died, but you've not actually got that memory, do you? I watched him die and I lost my child, and now you go and show me your son. Yes, it's upset me, and I want a bloody drink."

She tried to stalk past him, but he grabbed her arm, which was a very large mistake – she turned and bit his hand hard enough to draw blood. Unlike with Elladan, it didn't make him let go.

"Thranduil, if you've got even half a brain in your head, you'll get your hand off my arm and get out'v my bloody room," she warned. "This is something you can't understand, so go away and let me deal with it."

Fortunately for all the furniture _and_ his hand, he did. "Show me," he said. "Show me how your Liam died. You are right – I do not understand, but I have caused you pain, and that was not my intent."

Her eyes narrowed. If he really wanted to go there, she'd let him. He'd deserve what he saw. Lorna sat, and held out her hand, since he was not like her. "Let my mind tell you a story," she said, and barely managed not to snarl. He'd regret this – she'd make damn sure of that.

* * *

Thranduil was already regretting this entire exercise. He might be caustics and tactless, but he was not cruel, and had not deliberately set out to hurt Lorna. While he had not seen her husband die in her memories, he did know that he had, and that she had lost the child she carried as well. In hindsight, he should not have shown her young Legolas.

Her hand was certainly the size of a child's, but her grip was strong enough that it would have been painful to a mortal. Her glare could have withered an entire forest.

She did not let him ease into the memory – she slammed it into his own mind with the force of an oncoming boulder, so forcefully it left him reeling.

_They were on the motorway, she and Liam in their old battered van, driving through the sheeting, sleety rain on the way to Siobhnan's to break their news. She was laughing, suggesting ridiculous baby names, and Liam was laughing with her as they approached the bridge that spanned the Shannon. The van was warm, heater blasting and fogging up the windows as Liam reached over to squeeze her hand._

_And then, in an instant, everything went to hell._

_They hit something slippery - oil, ice, something - and the van spun out of control, tires screeching as it slammed into the barrier and smashed through. There was an instant of screaming, gut-wrenching terror, and then they were in the water, the icy, deadly water and deep currents of the Shannon._

_Lorna screamed – she knew that much, out of all the whirling confusion – and kicked her door open. She reached to grab Liam, and found he wasn't in his seat - he'd gone straight into the windscreen, and even through her panic she saw the blood that marred the crackled safety glass. On pure reflex she seized his arm, dragging them both out of the van as the frigid water poured in._

_It seemed to take ages to reach the surface, as she kicked desperately, doing her best to haul Liam's dead weight. Just when it seemed her lungs must burst she reached the surface, one leg throbbing in with agony, her ribs feeling like they'd been hit with a mallet. She heaved Liam out of the river, onto the slippery, ice-crusted grass, coughing up the water that had invaded her lungs. Liam was choking worse than she was, but at least he was breathing, retching as his lungs fought to clear themselves._

_Lorna tried to stand, to drag them both to higher ground, but her leg exploded in white-hot agony and collapsed beneath her - -she'd broken it, and hadn't realized it until then, when she was out of the frigid water. Her ribs too were afire with pain, and when she spat out water it was tinted pink._

_"Christ, Liam," she gasped, reaching for him. "Damn leg's broken…'ve got to crawl. C'mon, we've got to get out'v here."_

_But Liam wasn't moving - he was breathing, but he wasn't moving, and coldness that had nothing to do with the rain filled her chest. "Liam?"_

_His eyes opened and found her, glazed with shock. "Can't…move," he'd said, the words a choking, breathless gasp, and now that she looked at him, really looked at him, she saw that his neck was twisted at an almost impossible angle. She didn't know how he could be alive, but he was, staring up at her in dazed confusion. "Lorna…I can't feel…anything…."_

_She stared at him in horror, but only for an instant, and reached out to brush the sodden hair from his forehead with one aching, bloodless hand. "It's all right," she whispered, still coughing. "Someone'll come along soon, an' find us…."_

_She trailed off. She could crawl to the highway, but she doubted she could get much further than that, and she wouldn't leave Liam alone down here. Even if she made it to the road, it wouldn't do her any good unless someone came along, and if they did they'd see the broken barrier easily enough. She couldn't leave him, and she couldn't have moved him even if her leg hadn't been broken - with his neck as badly broken as it was, it was a wonder he was still alive, and if she moved him she'd almost certainly kill him._

_"Somebody'll come," she said, shivering as she lay beside him. "Somebody'll come soon, an' see where we wrecked - they'll find us, allanah. We just have to wait."_

_Liam looked at her, and she saw in his eyes that he knew better, but he didn't gainsay her. It was an awful night - few people would be out if they could help it, and it could be hours before anyone else came by. But he let her soothe him, as much for her benefit as his own, and they lay together in the sleet as the darkness slowly deepened._

_Until morning they lay there, and in those torturous hours Lorna slipped in and out of consciousness. She could feel herself draining away, life leeching out of her much like her warmth, leaving her exhausted and ready to let go of the last tenuous threads that held her. The pain had subsided into numbness, and even the cold didn't bite anymore; a kind of dozy warmth had enveloped her, until it was too much effort even to keep her eyes open._

When he came back to himself, he found her still glaring at him with dry eyes that burned like the heart of a Dwarf's forge. She released his hand, her own closing into a fist. "If you don't understand now, you never will," she said, her frigid voice contrasting sharply with her molten eyes. "Go away, Thranduil. We're done for the day."

He didn't. How could he? While he no longer had any idea how to comfort someone, he could hardly leave her alone with the memory of her grief so fresh. Lorna annoyed him immensely – the point where he occasionally wanted to throw her off one of the higher walkways – but he would never intentionally cause her pain. Irritation, yes; pain, no.

He stood, and went to dig through her leather bag of cheese, rifling through it until he found a particularly hard lump of wax-sealed cheddar. It would fit well enough in her hand, so he pressed it into her palm, closing her fingers around it, ignoring her bewilderment.

"Hit me with that," he said, dragging his armchair out of the way so she would have a clear shot.

Lorna stared at him as though he'd gone utterly insane.

"When you are angry, you either break something or hit someone," he said. "There is little in here you might break, and it is I you are angry with. So hit me with that cheese." Of all the sentences he would never, ever expect to say in his life….

She stared at him a moment more, then lobbed the cheese at him as hard as she could. Thranduil could have dodged it easily, and his instinct was to do so, but he kept still. Had he been Edain, it would have hurt, probably quite a bit – but then had he been Edain, she likely would have killed him directly after what he did to her mind a month ago.

She threw another one, but her heart didn't seem to be in it. Her hand closed on a third, but she dropped it back into the bag. "Go away, Thranduil," she repeated, her voice nearly as weary as her expression. "If you know me so well, you know how I deal with grief, so go away."

He did know. She repressed it into a dark corner of her mind, where it grew and festered until she had no choice but to let it free. However, he also knew that if he stayed, he would only make things worse. If she was too wounded to sustain rage, there was nothing to be done but leave her alone.

"I will return later, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said.

"D'you have to?" she muttered.

* * *

Katje's fears had been totally justified: the journey was indeed totally miserable.

The snowy forest was gorgeous, but keeping up with the pace set by Elrohir and Geezer was far more difficult than she would ever let on. In spite of the frigid temperatures, she was a hot, sweaty mess, and by the third day, she was beginning to smell. Nearly every muscle she possessed ached, and she would give her let kidney for a proper toilet.

She kept her complaints to herself, though, mostly because there was nothing at all to be done about any of them. On and on she slogged, until the snow ceased being beautiful and started to be a nightmare.

She nearly wept when, on the fourth day, Elrohir said they were nearly there. 'There', she knew, was a cave, but she didn't care – even if there was no bathroom, even if she had to sleep on the ground, she didn't care. As long as she could get away from all this damn snow, she'd be ecstatic.

What Elrohir had not mentioned was the fact that they might run into other people, but while the sun died a bloody death in the west, they did just that.

There were three of them, all obviously Elves, and the tall blonde woman was the most staggeringly beautiful person Katje had ever seen. 'Blonde' didn't really do her justice; her hair was golden, shot through with strands of pure silver, her eyes clearer and more blue than a summer sky, her pale skin smooth as porcelain. Though she looked young, she radiated an air of immense age.

Katje would totally do her. If, you know, she wasn't also completely terrifying, in no way Katje could define.

Those blue, blue eyes traveled to her, and she had a sudden, horrifying suspicion that the woman was reading her mind.

It was nothing like what Von Ratched had done – if indeed it was anything at all, and not just Katje's paranoia – but the thought of it was enough to freeze the breath in her lungs, her pulse skyrocketing so fast that it left her sick and dizzy. It was sit or fall, so she sat, heaving great gulps of air that did nothing. Her vision swam, dark sparkles shifting behind her eyes, and she wondered if she should fear unconsciousness, or welcome it.

A warm, gentle hand touched her head, stroking her greasy hair. One of the women – probably the blonde – spoke to her, and though she couldn't understand a word of it, it calmed her, and sent subtle warmth to her numb fingertips. Though she did not dare look up, she was no longer afraid.

"She says not to fear her," Elrohir said. "She will help."

_Help with what?_ Katje wondered, but she could not find her voice. Only now did she look up, and the beautiful woman smiled, helping her to her feet.

"You both must stay with us," he added. "Otherwise you are not safe."

Katje had known that, objectively, but to hear it spoken aloud now did nothing for her nerves. But then again, she could not imagine anything getting through this Elf-woman.

She stayed near Geezer while they were allowed through a gate, into a stable that was wonderfully warm, if extremely smelly. Horses had never been Katje's thing, and their odors were even less so.

All the grooms, badly startled, bowed, and she wondered just who these people were. Probably royalty of some sort – that woman couldn't be anything less than a queen. It certainly made Katje all the more acutely aware of the fact that she herself probably looked like hell.

They were led through the stable and out into a corridor, and she immediately reassessed her expectations. The word 'cave' conjured thought of, well, a _cave_, rough and damp and dark. This place was none of those things: the ceiling/roof/whatever was far overhead, the floor beneath her tired feet smooth as glass. While it was not precisely warm, it certainly wasn't cold, and not damp in the least.

A tall Elf woman – were there any other sort? – hurried over, obviously as startled as the grooms. After a quick bow, she spoke urgently to the blond man, her blue eyes flicking to Katje and Geezer.

"Go with Menelwen," Elrohir said. "She speak your language a little. You are safe to rest with her."

Katje desperately hoped resting would include a bath. She hated feeling dirty, and not until she came here did she realize how much she'd taken showers for granted.

The woman – Menelwen – hustled them both down the corridor, at a speed that almost forced Katje to jog to keep up. "There are two others here like you," she said. "One is down here with us, but the other is I do not know where. We will get you room and bath and clothes, but you must stay here. It is not safe above."

All Katje heard was the word 'bath'. At this point, she didn't care if she was about to be guillotined, so long as she was clean when it happened.

Menelwen led them through a bewildering succession of corridors, until they almost ran right into what had to be one of the other humans. A very _familiar_ human.

"Ratiri?" Katje asked, skidding to a halt.

"_Katje?_" he said, his eyes widening. "Geezer?"

Menelwen's eyes flicked back and forth. "You _know_ each other?"

"We were all in the same…prison," Ratiri said. "Have you seen any more of us?"

"In a manner of speaking," Geezer said grimly. "If Von Ratched's not here yet, he soon will be."

Ratiri went as pale as his complexion would allow, and for a moment Katje thought he might be sick. "_How?_" he asked, so stricken that it tore at her heart. She did not know what Von Ratched had done to him, but he had disappeared into F Wing more often than anyone else.

"Who knows?" Geezer said. "Probably the same way we did. However the hell that was."

"No one will get in here," Menelwen said firmly. "Your danger here will pass, and then nothing will hurt you."

Katje wanted to believe her. She really, really did, but Menelwen did not know Von Ratched.

"Come," Menelwen said. "Bath, food, rest. Lady Galadriel is here – none will come look for you."

Now _that_ Katje could believe. 'Lady Galadriel' could only be one person. With her near, Katje wouldn't be afraid to face Von Ratched head-on. Well, not very afraid.

* * *

Katje jumped at the offer of a bath, but Geezer needed to talk to Ratiri first – and stuff his face while he did it. Elf-food might not be as good as what the Dwarves ate, but it was good enough.

They went to Ratiri's room, to get away from any curious Elves who might know enough English to understand.

"You really are safe from Von Ratched here," he said, around a mouthful of jam sandwich. "Yeah, their King's nuts, but Von Ratched's not getting past _him_, and I think he's why Lady Galadriel's here. He might not be dangerous to us for much longer."

Ratiri shuddered. "Von Ratched will come looking for us," he said, picking at his own sandwich. "Somehow he'll work out that we're here, and he'll come searching."

Geezer swallowed, and took a long swig of water. "You don't get it, Ratiri," he said. "These people are _Elves_. They live for thousands of years. Von Ratched might be strong, but he can't compete with them, and he'll know it." Now was not the time to tell Ratiri that the bastard had been – or would be – dropped in a place where he'd have no competition at all. Whatever had been done to Ratiri had left him fragile in a way Geezer did not understand, and he didn't want to go poking that wound with a stick. "He's not gonna get any of us, kid."

Ratiri sighed. "You're probably right," he said, "and I wish I could believe you, but I can't. Not yet. And this King of theirs is even more terrifying than Von Ratched, though the other human here seems to have some sort of handle on him. He was all set to mind-rape me, but she stopped him. I don't know _how_ – I don't speak their language – but it involved yelling, and some flying cheese. Her name is Lorna," he added. "She might be mildly insane, but I like her."

"She wasn't at the Institute?" That didn't fit the pattern – if there even _was_ a pattern.

"No, but she's cursed. I don't know what her curse _is_, but she's got one."

Well, that fit _a_ pattern, at least. "Might be we could actually be useful here," Geezers said. "Cursed don't exist in this world. Now that we don't have Doctor von Assface breathing down our necks, maybe we can get a handle on ours. Well, you can." Von Ratched had tried to harness Geezer's, and succeeded only in causing a hell of a lot of pain.

That actually managed to make Ratiri look thoughtful, rather than totally disturbed. The man had been a doctor, Geezer knew, before everything went to shit – maybe being useful, having a purpose that would actually _help_ someone, would snap him out of his near-fugue state.

"If this Lorna speaks the Elves' lingo, have her take you to see the healers. Might be you could teach each other something."

Wonder of wonders, Ratiri actually looked curious, and curious in a way that did not involve wariness. Geezer refused to let Von Ratched destroy the kid forever, but Ratiri had never before endured the kinds of things that could break a man. He'd been totally unprepared for it, and had no one to protect him. That he had any sanity left was a miracle; many people at the Institute didn't.

"Well, you think about it," Geezer said, rising. "If I don't go take a bath, Katje'll hit me. She'll probably drop by to see you later, to make sure you're all right." He wandered out into the hallway, not caring that he didn't know where he was going. It wasn't long before he ran across another Elf that spoke halfway decent English – dude said his name was Faelon, and that there was a room and a bath already prepared.

Geezer fought a smirk. No doubt he smelled awful to the Elves, but he'd gone longer without a bath. Clean clothes would be nice, though.

* * *

Katje thought she had died on gone to heaven.

An Elvish bath was a lot more like a hot tub, recessed into the floor, and easily big enough for her to stretch out in. The water was hot and there was plenty of it, the soap smelled of some soft, lovely floral scent, and the shampoo was better than anything she'd ever found on Earth. Whatever happened in the future, she didn't want to leave this place.

After she'd scrubbed twice and washed her hair three times, she felt human enough to get out and get dressed. One of the Elf-women had loaned her a stunning dress of shot silk, russet and gold, and shoes that actually fit. Yes, Katje could _definitely_ get used to this.

Her feet were so tired that she didn't feel like exploring, so she sat in a fat armchair in front of the fire, basking in the heat while she brushed her hair dry, and nibbled on bread and fruit. Never, ever would she take such simple things for granted again.

Somebody rapped on her door, and she sighed at the interruption. When she answered it, she found Menelwen, who looked subtly nervous.

"The King wants to meet the three of you," she said. "Lady Galadriel is here. You are safe."

In spite of her assurances, Katje winced. Of all the things she had not wanted to do with her evening…but she probably had no choice, seeing as this was their King. Damn.

She found Ratiri and Geezer already waiting in the corridor, and found that while Ratiri could pull off Elvish clothing, Geezer _really_ could not. He'd chosen what were likely the plainest things he could find, but the fact that he'd kept his ruinous coat didn't help. At all.

"Well, at least you look decent," he grunted. "This King of theirs gives us too much trouble, you turn him into a kitten or something."

She choked on a laugh, her nerves soothed somewhat. The bath had eased her aching muscles enough that the long flights of stairs were not _too_ much of a chore, even if they did seem to go on forever.

They passed many Elves, all of whom looked at them curiously, but more than a few were also pitying.

Menelwen stopped them outside a door. "They call this an experiment," she said, clearly not understanding the word. "You are safe."

Everyone had taken such pains to assure their safety that Katje didn't believe it. It was starting to sound as though the people saying it kept doing so in the hope that if they said it enough, it would make it true.

They passed through the door, into a vast, gorgeous room of carved stone, with pillars like trees and walls inlaid with gold and silver vines. A ray of red sunset light landed on a mammoth throne crowned with some kind of massive antlers, and on the throne sat the most beautiful, most terrifying man she had ever seen. An Elf, obviously, his long hair white-blond, his face almost too perfect to be real – but his eyes were cold, and more than half-mad. Had Lady Galadriel not been standing to his left, Katje might have turned around and run.

To her immense surprise, he spoke English, and he spoke it perfectly. "I am told you all know one another," he said, his voice rich and deep. "And that you have all arrived at nearly the same time. What do any of you know of this?"

It took a moment for anyone to answer. "Nothing," Geezer said. "I know something else you need to hear, though."

"Wait – bloody hell, it's you." A small woman Katje had not noticed struggled to her feet. It looked as though she had been digging through a bag. "I'd been afraid you'd got eaten by a spider."

Geezer blinked. "_This_ is where you came? The MiG freaked the fuck out when they couldn't find you. They were convinced they'd actually found someone who could teleport."

The King looked from one to the other, his expression slightly pained. "Of course you know one another. Of _course_ you do."

"He was in the van with me, when I crashed," she said. "You ought to know that."

Huh?

"I did not get everything, as you well know," he said, some of the hauteur leaving his voice. "I will not harm them, Lorna."

"I'll believe that when I see it. Remember, Thranduil, I've got cheese." With that utterly mystifying statement, she sat back next to her bag.

The King – Thranduil – stood, and when he stalked toward them, Katje had to fight to stand her ground. He was as tall as Von Ratched, and bore a superficial resemblance to him – but Von Ratched's eyes had not held this form of greedy madness. One pale hand reached out to touch Ratiri's face –

Something came flying out of the ether, something that struck him in the back of the head, utterly snapping his focus. It bounced to the floor, and Katje saw that it was a round of cheese, probably a quarter eaten.

"I warned you." The little woman sounded a bit too viciously pleased.

The glare he sent her could have stripped paint, but she just sat and placidly began to peel another cheese. "I have questions for you," he said, looking at each of them in turn. "Many questions, but I will not harm you in asking them." He looked like he wanted to do more than ask – Katje was certain that if it was possible to sift through their souls, he'd do it. Maybe it _was_ possible, and it was what he was being warned against.

"Like what?" she asked, amazed she could speak at all.

"To begin with, what this man believes I need to know. Come, sit and speak with me." He beckoned them to follow with a lazy flick of his hand, as though he took it for granted that they would. Two servants Katje had not seen somehow managed to set up three chairs facing the throne – rather fancy chairs, carved of dark wood, with cushions. The three of them sat, but the King did not return to his throne right away. Instead, he went and stole the little woman's bag, earning himself a glower. He ignored it, and took the bag with him when he ascended the steps to his throne. "Speak," he said.

"I'm cursed," Geezer said bluntly. "We all are, but mine shows me bits of the future. There's someone coming here that you _really_ don't want here, if he hasn't turned up already. He's like us, but powerful – so damn powerful that no one in our world stood a chance against him."

"His name is Von Ratched," Ratiri added. "He reads minds, and controls them. To call it _painful_ is an understatement."

A sharp intake of breath caught Katje's attention. The little woman had gone pale, or as pale as she could. "Is he a doctor?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

"Yes," Ratiri said. "I did not think you were at the Institute."

"I wasn't," she said. "I met him earlier. Well, I say 'met'. It was more like mind rape, but he'd had a load'v us stashed in a warehouse or something, and we got out."

"He is _here_?" the King demanded. "Are you certain?"

"If he's not, he will be," Geezer said. "My curse hasn't ever been wrong yet."

Katje was a little worried that the King didn't look worried. His expression was more pensive than anything, with a faint undercurrent of viciousness.

"Where is he, or where will he be?"

"Gondor," Geezer said. "Minas Tirith, where there's too damn many human minds open to him."

The King smiled, and it was easily the most terrifying expression Katje had ever seen. He looked at the little woman, who still seemed completely stricken. "Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, "how would you like revenge?"

* * *

Oh Geezer. You really might regret telling Thranduil that. On the one hand, he's incredibly isolationist and not at all willing to send an army against Von Ratched; on the other, he doesn't _need_ an army (or doesn't yet think he does). Should Lorna decide to go after Von Ratched, she won't be without Elvish backup.

Title means "Arrivals" in Irish.

Reviews are stuff of wonder. Wonder feeds my story. Feed me, Seymoure.


	25. Fionnachtain

In which Galadriel figures out what is needed to fix Thranduil's brain, Geezer gets his hands fixed, Menelwen studies the exotic Edain in Arandur's place, and Ratiri, very unfortunately, sticks his foot in his mouth and then chews on it.

* * *

_How would I like revenge?_ Lorna thought. She'd bloody _love_ revenge, but right now she was almost ill with horror. If Thranduil had told her the truth when he said he'd built her a wall – and she had no reason to suspect him of lying – then the doctor couldn't hurt her again. Von Ratched – she could put a name to the f ace now, to the terrible memory.

The thought that he was _here_, or would be – that he could do to others what he'd done to her, and apparently to these three as well – could not be borne. "Yes," she said. "Fuck yes I'd like revenge. When can we start?"

"Not yet. If nothing else, we must wait until he is here, and no one can leave for Gondor until spring." He switched to Sindarin. "Meanwhile, I will teach you to destroy him."

"You promise?" she asked, also in Sindarin.

"I promise, Little Stranger. You will have all the vengeance your bloodthirsty little heart wants. We must speak with Lady Galadriel, and then you may go get drunk with your pretty man and his friends."

Her eyes narrowed. "Eyebrows, Thranduil. I hope you're not attached to yours." Her earlier fury with him had died down to its normal level of vague irritation, but still. His eyebrows offended her in some obscure way, and she'd love an excuse to get rid of them. Possibly with duct tape, if such a thing could be found in Middle-Earth.

"So you keep threatening, yet still I have them. Lady Galadriel, if you would follow me, we can discuss this with more privacy." There was something ever-so-slightly off about him – his snark seemed a trifle forced, and Lorna realized that he was nervous. She doubted anyone else but that Lady Galadriel would know it, but Lorna couldn't exactly _blame_ him for it. He was, after all, about to find out if he'd be a mentaller for the rest of eternity.

She grabbed the bag of cheese as she went, mostly so she'd have something to eat, if this took a while. Right now, she couldn't bring herself to throw any of it at Thranduil, no matter how obnoxious he was.

Maybe it was because he'd stopped seeming creepy to her the first day he'd kidnapped her, but seeing him next to Lady Galadriel was a bit of a shock to the system._ She_ was terrifying, though not in the same way – there was a deep kindness to her that Thranduil lacked, but even with the blocks he had put on Lorna's mind, the weight of her thoughts and memories was incredibly heavy. How old _was_ she? Hell, how old were any of these Elves? Arandur was a little over five hundred, but Lorna had no idea how long any of the others had walked Middle-Earth.

Not nearly as long as Galadriel, she'd bet. Thranduil seemed positively human next to her, which was not a thing Lorna would have ever thought she'd be able to say. She was warm where he was cold, but so very, very alien.

"She will not eat you," Thranduil said in English.

"I know," Lorna said, "but she _could_." That, really, was the unnerving thing about Elves in general, or had been. Now it was just Galadriel who freaked her out.

"So could I," he pointed out.

"Not anymore. Not with these blocks in my mind, unless you were lying about how effective they were. I bet she could get through anything."

"You are right enough there. Even the wizards are not safe from her mind."

Well, _that_ was nice and horrifying. Still, Lorna would love to see Von Ratched go up against her, and get squished like a bug.

She knew Thranduil well enough to know that he would never send an army against Von Ratched – not unless the man led a direct assault of the Woodland Realm. She was hoping, however, that his talk of revenge mean he'd let her take a few of her friends with her when she went, provided any of them were willing to go. Once they found out enough bout Von Ratched, they might not be.

But for now, Thranduil had to find out if he was going to be going off the rails on a crazy train for the rest of his immortal life. In addition to Lady Galadriel, his son had joined them, looking as worried as an Elf _could_ look. He gave Lorna a slightly bewildered glance, and she shrugged – she didn't actually know why she was here.

They wound up in one of the smaller council chambers, though as in Erebor, 'small' was a relative term. She'd intended to hang back, but Thranduil grabbed her bag of cheese and dragged her to one o the chairs. She just barely managed to avoid sticking her tongue out at him – she didn't need Galadriel thinking she was completely childish. Up onto a chair she clambered, watching the beautiful Elf whose memories pressed so hard against her mind.

"I know what you have done, Thranduil," Galadriel said, her voice calm. "And what it has done to you. I will heal the damage as best I may, but Lorna's magic is alien to me. It may well leave scars."

"Scars I can endure," he said. "Madness, I cannot. If more of these Edain arrive – and it seems likely that they will – I cannot forever have Lorna following me with a bag of cheese."

"Adar…_why_?" Legolas asked helplessly.

Thranduil sighed. "The tall Edain, Ratiri, was found while I was…away. He is Lorna's p-"

"Don't say it," she warned.

"—acquaintance," he amended. "I met him two nights ago, and what control I have slipped. She broke my concentration by throwing cheese at me, and evidently decided it worth repeating. She labors under the delusion that she is clever."

"I'm sorry, but of the two of us, which one's lost their mind? Oh, right. Not me."

"Evidently her mind has affected you, Thranduil," Galadriel said, and Lorna wondered if she was imagining the trace of amusement in the Elf woman's voice. "I would like to see how much."

Lorna squirmed a little, wondering if she should speak up. "Lady Galadriel, I should warn you, I'm a bit worried about that," she said. "My curse did this to Thranduil on its own, without any help from me. For all I know, it might infect you two, too, through him."

Galadriel smiled at her, and it was warm as summer. "It is a valid worry," she said, "but not, I think, a necessary one. I am far older than Thranduil, and my gifts are much stronger."

Thranduil didn't look particularly pleased by the reminder, but now was not the time to laugh at his discomfort. In this context, it wasn't funny.

"I will not linger, Thranduil," Galadriel promised. "I need only seek the epicenter of your infection."

He was silent, and she said nothing more, and it was just about the most awkward thing Lorna had ever sat through. She was tempted to get up and join Legolas a little further along the table, but she was afraid it would break someone's concentration. So she stayed very still, which was not a thing that came at all naturally to her, and wondered how long it would take Galadriel to do her voodoo – if she could do anything at all. Thranduil might be irritating as fuck, but Lorna didn't want him to have to be a fruitcake for the rest of his immortal life. She wasn't _that_ mean. And whenever she left, she wanted to be certain he wouldn't do anyone else what he had done to her. If she couldn't be absolutely sure, all she would do was worry.

Eventually, after what seemed like hours, Galadriel opened her eyes. "I have found the wellspring of your infection, Thranduil," she said gently, "and stemmed it for now, but I cannot myself remove it. It came from you, Lorna, and to you it must return."

Well, shit. "Lady Galadriel, I have no idea how to do that," she said. "I don't know how I did it in the first place, so I _really_ don't know how to undo it."

"I do not either, yet," Galadriel said, which made Lorna's heart sink. "Until I do, you can go nowhere. Your vengeance will have to wait."

_That_ was not what Lorna needed to hear, but she reminded herself that she wouldn't be able to go anywhere until spring anyway. She hazarded a glance at Thranduil, who understandably looked even less happy than she felt. Since she was about as capable of comforting someone as your average rock, she poked him in the shoulder and said, "Go get drunk with your kid. Lady Galadriel and I will figure something out."

He arched an eyebrow, but said nothing – he really _must_ be unhappy, if he had no responding snark. He stood, beckoning Legolas to follow, and when he'd gone, she turned to Galadriel.

"I really don't have any idea how to do this," she said. "I'm human and mortal and my mind is squishy compared to yours. I could kill myself doing this and still fail." She sighed, running her hands through her hair. She had zero desire to die for anything, but especially not for the sake of Thranduil's cracked brain, since it was all his fault.

Galadriel reached out and took her left hand. Normally Lorna really disliked being touched, but there was something inexpressibly comforting in Galadriel's. "You are not an Elf, child, but you are stronger than you think. You will do this thing, and then you will go seek your vengeance, but what will you do once you have had it?"

That was a damn good question. "I don't know," Lorna said. "I was going to go with Elladan and Elrohir to Rivendell, but that was when I still thought Thranduil was going to rip my brain apart. I guess it depends on what my friend want to do. I don't want to go wandering off to a strange place by myself. I mean, don't get me wrong, Elladan and Elrohir are like the slightly annoying brothers I never had, but Arandur and Faelon and Menelwen were the first friends I made here."

"And what of the other Edain?" Galadriel asked, with a small smile. "What of the one you warned Thranduil against speaking about?"

Lorna really needed to get this whole 'blushing' thing under control. "I don't know about him yet," she said. "I haven't talked to him enough. He's…nice, though." _Eloquent, Lorna. Really eloquent._

"You have time," Galadriel said. "I will need your aid, but not all the time. Go now to your own people – there is no need for worry yet."

"Thanks," Lorna said, and added almost shyly, "you're not like any other Elves I've met here. Even all my friends but Arandur started off treating me like I was either daft or a child, and don't even get me _started_ on Thranduil. You talk to me like I'm a person, so…thank you." She felt a bit of an idiot, but it wasn't often in Middle-Earth that she'd actually felt respected. Liked, yes; respected, not so much.

Galadriel smiled, and it was warm as the summer sun. Maybe, if everything worked out, the four humans could go with her for a while. "Everyone deserves respect," she said, "unless they prove otherwise."

"I wish everybody thought like you," Lorna said. "I think everybody will be down in the kitchen, so if you need me for whatever, someone can find me there."

* * *

Someday, Katje thought, her hammering pulse might slow down to something approaching normal again. Just now, she was attempting to force it with this excellent – and very _strong_ – wine. She, Geezer, and Ratiri had retired to Ratiri's room, needing a little time away from all those Elves.

"At least he didn't look at you like he wanted to eat your brain," Ratiri said, adding some wood to the fire. He'd only lit two of his lanterns, so the room was dim, but after the brightness of the throne room, it was welcome. "I won't lie – when I first saw him, I thought he was a zombie, even though he spoke before he came into the room. Those _eyes_…" He twitched.

"It is too bad," she said, sipping her wine. "He is very pretty, but crazy is always a turn-off."

Geezer groaned. "Katje, no trying to seduce the Elves."

"Why not?" she asked. They were _all_ very pretty, and surely most of them had to be sane.

"Because if you succeed, you're married," he said, and laughed at her horror. "Elves aren't like us, lass."

Evidently _not_. Katje had no desire to get married yet, to man or woman (or Elf). Such a shame. She'd been celibate rather longer than she liked, but Geezer was like her father and Ratiri was so sad and so broken. The last thing he needed was somebody coming onto him right now. Maybe Lorna swung both ways.

"Don't even think about it," Geezer said.

"Are you sure _you_ are not telepath?" Katje groused. "You do not know what I am thinking."

"Sure I do," he said, downing the rest of his wine. "Christ, I wish the Elves had beer. Dunno about you, but now that I know nobody's gonna get their brain melted, I sorta want to go back to Erebor."

The mere thought of making that journey again in the snow made her shudder. "Not until spring," she said firmly. "Why can we not stay here? Here has baths. _Real_ baths, not a tub in front of a fire. I bet beds are more comfortable, too."

"They are," Ratiri said. "So comfortable that sometimes I'm afraid this is all a dream, and I'll wake up back at the Institute."

Katje winced. She'd had nightmares about that herself. "Look on bright side," she said. "If Von Ratched is here, there would not be so bad."

Ratiri smiled, but his heart clearly wasn't in it. What had Von Ratched _done_ to him? He needed to talk to one of the Elf-doctors, but he would not do it on his own. Even if she didn't have to physically drag him to one, she'd need to poke him into it. Like almost every man Katje had ever met, he was too stubborn for his own good.

Fortunately for him, she could out-stubborn practically anybody. He would get help, whether he wanted it or not.

"Finish that," she ordered, pointing at his wine glass. "We need to go for walk."

* * *

As Arandur was not here, Menelwen decided that she must stand in for him, to study these Edain. Doubtless he would want to know her observations, whenever she saw him again.

The three that came into the kitchen almost seemed like a family. Katje and Geezer both kept an eye out for…well, something, and kept Ratiri firmly between them. Geezer surveyed the room with the gaze of a warrior, while Katje made note of all the people. Ratiri seemed somewhat less jumpy now that he had two of his own with him. She wondered anew what his curse was, and why it would make him stare so.

Once upon a time, Menelwen had thought all Edain must be more or less like those of Lake-Town and Dale. All four of the strangers had shattered her expectations, each in their own way – while she knew Lorna the best out of the lot, it didn't take much work to realize that none of the others would bear her assumptions out, either.

She looked at Geezer's hands, and made a decision. She did not know what in Eru's name could have scarred them so – they were burned, but worse than burned. The flesh looked like it had been _melted_ in places. While the wounds were likely to old to be healed entirely, surely the healers could do something for them.

Fortunately, Lorna was not very drunk when Menelwen found her. This would require someone more fluent in English than Menelwen, but when Lorna was drunk, she was incomprehensible in English _and_ Sindarin.

"I need your help," Menelwen said, guiding her away from the crowd. "I believe we can do something for Geezer's hands, but I need you to translate."

Lorna looked at the old man. "I know his type," she said. "This might not be easy."

"What do you mean?" Menelwen asked.

"He's a proud sort – won't want what he thinks'v as charity or pity. We've got to phrase this right, or he'll not go for it."

The concept of refusing aid out of sheer pride was totally incomprehensible to Menelwen, but Lorna knew her own people. "How can we do that?"

Lorna pondered. "We want to teach him to use our weapons," she said, "but he needs his hands fixed first."

Menelwen wondered if she realized she had said 'our'. "If you believe that will work."

"He'll probably see right through it, but we can try." She smiled, and downed the last of her wine. "C'mon."

Menelwen followed her across the kitchen, watching curiously as all three Edain turned to face them in almost perfect synchronization.

"Mate, you'll not hold a weapon with your hands banjaxed like that," Lorna said. "C'mon, we can fix them."

Katje looked totally horrified, but Geezer burst out laughing. "You've got a way with words," he said, and looked down at his hands. How he got any use out of them at all, Menelwen didn't know. "You really gonna teach me how to use a sword, or is this just some kinda charity bullshit?"

"_I_ won't teach you," Lorna said. "I'll be learning with you. I've had one sword lesson, and I was total pants at it. We'll never be as good as the Elves, because we won't live long enough to get that kind'v practice, but I'm betting we can get pretty decent. Both'v you ought to as well," she said, looking at Katje and Ratiri.

As Menelwen expected, Ratiri looked dubious, but Katje was surprisingly enthusiastic. For all she was a graceful, lithe woman, she moved like she had real strength.

"You'll be learning to defend yourself," Lorna said. "You'll not need to be at anyone's mercy again."

"What about Von Ratched?" Ratiri asked quietly.

"You let me deal with that bastard. I've got allies he'll stand no chance against." Had Lorna been a different sort of person, she might have taken his hand, but she was not, as Menelwen well knew. "I'm talking about ordinary threats, if you decide to go out into the world."

He still didn't look convinced, so she said, "You've plenty'v time to think about it. No reason you've got to make a decision right away. C'mon, Geezer. Let's get your hands looking like something human again."

* * *

Ratiri followed the little group to the infirmary – half out of curiosity, and half because he didn't want to be left behind.

He'd been a doctor, not so very long ago, but it felt like another lifetime. What sort of healing could a medieval place like this have? His imagination supplied images of saws and leeches, but he doubted that was the case.

The infirmary itself was not what he expected – it was large and bright and clean, and though it was not even close to modern by his standards, it was as neatly organized as any hospital on Earth. The shelves held tiny rows of glass bottles in various colors, while bunches of dried herbs hung from the ceiling. There were several rows of exam tables – wood, though, which was not exactly hygienic – with what appeared to be private rooms beyond.

The doctor on duty appeared to be far too young for her job, but all the Elves looked young. Unlike most of them, all of her golden-brown hair was pulled back out of the way, woven into a braid that fell nearly to her knees.

"This is Galasríniel," Lorna said. "She's looked after me, all the time I've been here. Here, Geezer, show her your hands."

He did, and Galasríniel's blue eyes widened. She took Geezer's left hand, and said something in rapid-fire Elvish.

"She wants to know what happened," Lorna said.

"Vietnam," Geezer said grimly. "Napalm. It sticks and it burns, and it's hard as hell to put out."

Lorna winced. She explained to Galasríniel, who initially looked quite puzzled, and Ratiri figured Middle-Earth might not have a napalm equivalent. 'Vietnam' and 'napalm' were repeated several times, and by the time the conversation was over, the Elf looked sick. She said something else, something containing the word 'fuck'.

"She wants to know what the fuck is wrong with our world," Lorna said dryly.

Geezer snorted. "Does she want a list? 'Cause we could give her one."

"I doubt it's necessary," Lorna said dryly.

Shaking her head, Galasríniel went to the shelves, taking down a large stone bowl and several of the bottles. Ratiri followed her, now truly curious, and she gave him a puzzled look.

"Can you tell her I'm a doctor?" he asked Lorna. "I want to know what medicine is like in this world."

Lorna said something, and the Elf's expression cleared. She beckoned Lorna over so that they could both watch what she was doing, explaining as she went.

"The balm is to make the rest of the potion stick," Lorna translated. "The athelas – that's the plant with the little white flowers – is the main healing herb, but there's also aloe to soften the scars, and there's something called balion, which I personally have never bloody heard of, and sassafras, which I thought only went in tea."

Galasríniel must have understood some of that, for she smiled as she crushed the herbs, mixing them in with a thick, whitish balm. The aroma was sweet, but not overly so – it actually made Ratiri feel rather hungry.

She carried the bowl to Geezer, medicating that he sit on one of the tables, issuing instructions that Lorna translated.

"She'll put this on your hands twice a day, and wrap them up. You're not to use your hands any more than you absolutely have to, but she believes this treatment might heal most of your scar tissue if you follow her orders."

Ratiri almost laughed at Geezer's expression, which was dubious in the extreme. Still, he allowed Galasríniel to smear the goop all over his hands, and wrap them in soft linen bandages.

"No reading my mind to make sure I've behaved on this," he said to Lorna, who paled.

"How did you know that?" she asked.

"I watched you in a crowd, lass," he said. "All that week. Either you were crazy, or you were a telepath. Still not convinced you're not a little crazy, but it doesn't take Sherlock fuckin' Holmes to figure out your curse."

Ratiri felt the blood drain from his face so fast that for a moment he was afraid he'd pass out. Instinctive, wholly reflexive terror seized him like a vice, surging his pulse and stealing his breath. "A telepath?" he said, the words little more than a whisper. "She's a bloody _telepath_?!"

"Aaaand this is why I didn't say anything," Lorna said, glaring at Geezer.

"How much have you read?" Ratiri demanded, panic fluttering in his gut like a trapped rat. "What do you know?"

"Nothing," she said. "I don't use my curse. Thranduil taught me how to control it, so I don't have to hear anything."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"You'd feel it, wouldn't you?" Lorna said, as gently as she probably could. "You had to have felt Von Ratched. Christ knows _I_ did." She shuddered, but Ratiri didn't trust her. He didn't trust her or any of these Elves, who for all he knew might _all_ be telepaths.

"Stay away from me," he said. "All of you, stay away. How do I know you're not like him?" he asked, nearly choking on his desperation. "Were you working with him?"

For a moment, there was utterly terrible silence, and then she punched him – punched him so hard he thought she knocked one of his teeth loose. It certainly split his lip wide open. Her face had gone livid, her eyes burning like toxic green stars. She might not be an Elf, but in that moment she didn't look like a human, either.

"Don't you _ever_ say that to me again," she hissed. "I catch you even _suggesting_ it, I'll kill you."

It wasn't an idle threat – there was already murder in her eyes. She stormed out of the room, and both Geezer and Galasríniel glared at him.

"That," Geezer said, "was the dumbest thing I've ever seen you do. D'you think I would've let her near any of you if I thought she as a danger to us?

Ratiri's lingering panic almost kept him from even comprehending Geezer's words. "She's a telepath," he whispered. "She's a telepath." He had _liked_ Lorna, and this information left him feeling weirdly betrayed.

Katje shook her head, making her own way to the door, but Galasríniel stopped her.

"Do not follow," she said, in heavily accented English. "Leave her."

"Why not?" Katje asked.

"She…hurt here," the healer said, clearly struggling for enough English.

"She was hurt here?" Geezer asked, and the healer nodded.

"Bad memory here. Leave her."

Katje didn't look like she wanted to hear that, but she listened.

* * *

Legolas only left when Thranduil had practically drunk himself into a stupor – no doubt to speak with Galadriel.

Her news was not what Thranduil needed to hear. He had known it would not be so simple, but he had nevertheless hoped. Galadriel was powerful beyond measure – he would trust her with his mind. Lorna, however, was mortal, and newly come into her own power – so newly that he would not trust her even with a mortal mind, no matter how well-meaning she was.

Drunk though he was, sleep was nowhere to be found, so he went for a walk in one of the emptier areas of the halls, traversing high bridge that let him look down on all that was his – all he would lose, should this fail. A small stream babbled between two walkways, its banks lined with delicate ferns that somehow managed to thrive despite the lack of sunlight.

A small figure stalked along one, practically radiating wrath – Lorna, if that mane of hair was any indication. At times she seemed to be more hair than woman – she had a memory of her elder sister calling her an Anger Management Hairball. She was certainly infuriated right now.

"And what has set you off this time?" he asked.

She glared up at him, but beneath her rage, he could see she was upset. "Ratiri's an arsehole," she said in English.

Well. _This_ could be an interesting story. "You need a drink," he said. "Come with me."

"I need a whole damn barrel," she muttered, finding the staircase to the upper level.

"And what has your pretty man done?" he asked, as soon as she'd crested the steps.

The glare she gave him was surprisingly weary. "Don't start with me, Thranduil," she sighed. "If you're gonna be a twat, I'll get drunk on my own."

His levity faded. "What has he said?"

"He found out I'm a telepath," Lorna growled. "He said I was like Von Ratched, accused me of reading everyone's minds, and then asked if I was _working_ for the bastard. So I punched him and left."

Her words were flat, but her voice was unsteady. Had she been the sort of person who cried, she probably would be.

"You do need a barrel," he said. "Come with me . I keep the best wine to myself."

"Is that why you didn't sleep as long as everyone else?" she asked, not moving, so he gave her a shove.

"Among other reasons. What will you do, now that pretty Ratiri has revealed himself to be, as you say, a twat?"

Lorna shrugged. "It's not like we were even proper friends yet," she said. "It's just…disappointing. I'd liked what I saw'v who he was. Nice to know I'm such a shite judge'v character."

Thranduil bit back a remark about the obliviousness of Edain, and was rather pleased with himself for doing so. "Well, good wine cures many ills," he said, ushering her into his study. "And more Edain will arrive, in time. You need not be lonely for your own kind forever."

"Who said I was?" she asked, as he pushed her vaguely in the direction of an armchair. "I'm glad I found Geezer again, at least. He's good people. Dunno enough about Katje yet."

"Well, you have another two months to think on it," he said, pouring a small glass of the wine he typically used as a sedative. He watered it down quite a bit – he wanted to put her to sleep, but not_ permanently._

"Thank Christ for that," she muttered, drawing her knees up under her chin. "I barely know him – I shouldn't be so offended, but for fuck's sake. Working for Von Ratched? _Working_ for him?" She took a large gulp of wine. "That's good stuff. What's in it?"

"Grapes," he said dryly, pouring himself a cup of ordinary wine – as if he needed any more. "You have every right to be offended. Being accused of working with that _creature_ would offend anyone."

Lorna laughed, but it was rather bitter. "True." She drank the rest of the wine in one large gulp, her eyelids already growing heavy. "Did you drug me?"

"No, I sedated you," Thranduil said. "There is a difference."

"Twat," she muttered, for now too sleepy to be furious. "Why?"

"Because you need sleep," he said, as though it was patently obvious. "And because I need to have a word with several people."

"This is gonna end horribly, isn't it?" she asked, curling up in the chair like a cat. It was big enough that that was not a difficult thing to accomplish.

"More than likely," he agreed easily. "But dissent among my subjects does not go unpunished. Sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa. I will tell you all about it when you wake."

"Wanker," she mumbled, but her eyes were already closed. Evidently he had not watered her drink as well as he had thought. She was asleep within moments, still curled up.

If she was going to be of any use at all, she could not be upset by her fellow idiotic Edain. It was best if she not be awake for what he meant to do next.

* * *

Oh, Ratiri. I know you were panicking like hell, but that was still a shitty thing to say. Lorna ain't gonna forgive you easily. She knows, on some level, that you were just freaking out because you'd been surprised, but she still took it personally, because dude. Not okay.

Title means "Discovery" in Irish.

Reviews are my lifeblood. Without blood, I can't live. Without life, the rest of this story will be written by a zombie, and will probably involve everyone eating brains until the end of time.


	26. Aisling Dona

In which Thranduil scares the life out of Ratiri, Geezer, and Katje, Arandur finally gets home, Thranduil actually confides some stuff to Galadriel, and Lorna has some ominous dreams.

* * *

Ratiri, once the iron grip of panic faded, had gone back to his rooms, and was now feeling thoroughly ashamed of himself.

He had not been the sort of person to accuse someone like that before he'd gone to the Institute. Pre-curse Ratiri would never had said anything like that to anyone, but especially not to someone could had already helped him so much. God knew what the King would have done to him, the first night he'd met her. He wanted to apologize, but Geezer pointed out that she would probably beat him shitless if he tried now.

"She could, too," he said, eating a piece of cheese and belching. "You shoulda seen her against the MiG. If she wasn't in the Army, she got taught to fight by someone who was."

Ratiri touched his jaw, and winced. She certainly _hit_ hard enough – she really had knocked one of his teeth loose. It was probably just as well that he couldn't apologize yet, because how _did_ you apologize for saying something like that?

He had no idea, but his ruminations were interrupted when someone opened his door without bothering to knock. He looked up, and froze – as did Geezer and Katje. It was the damn King of the Elves, and he did not look happy.

_Shit_.

"I had not thought to see you two," he said, his pale eyes sweeping from Geezer to Katje, before landing on Ratiri like twins lasers. "It is just as well that you are all here." He looked, Ratiri thought, like some kind of horrifying avenging angel, his face all but impassive, yet bearing a trace of contempt. "While Lorna annoys me immensely, I owe that woman a very great deal, and I will not have any of you upsetting her. Especially you," he said, pointing at Ratiri, who felt a sudden urge to crawl under the table and hide. "She was rather fond of you, and after what she told me you said to her, I will not stop her if she chooses to strangle you."

Ratiri winced. "I was going to apologize, once I figured out what to say," he said.

The King arched an eyebrow. "I would not recommend you attempt that yet," he said, his deep voice dry. "Again, strangulation. I understand the horror that doctor visited upon your mind, but you cannot take it out on those around you. Try it again and you can take your chances in the snow." That strange, hungry look was flickering in those terrible pallid eyes, but he seemed to be restraining it. For now.

Geezer was looking at him speculatively, though his face had gone grey. "How can you?" he asked, his voice faint. "How can you really understand?

Though the King's statue-like expression didn't change, some unidentifiable thing flickered briefly through his eyes. "I saw that he did to Lorna,' he said, "because I did the same thing to her. Only less painfully."

Ratiri's panic, so barely subdued, surged forward again, but it was joined by horror and crushingly guilty regret. He'd hoped Lorna had not fully known what she'd saved him from the other night; hearing that she'd gone through it personally only made him feel more wretched.

The King didn't quite smile at his expression, but it seemed like a near thing. "As I said, I owe her much. I do not, however, owe _you_ anything, and if I find you have made her not-cry again, I will throw you out into the forest, and you can see how long it takes you to freeze to death. You, Geezer – she thinks of you as some manner of friend. Do whatever it is you Edain do to comfort one another. Though I still cannot believe she never asked your name before your…accident."

"How did you know that?" Geezer managed, though his voice was unsteady.

Thranduil sighed, all traces of bitter mirth leaving his face. "I know far more about her than I should. I took more than your Doctor von Ratched, and it very nearly killed her."

The threat hung heavy in the air, no less awful for being unspoken: _I could to the same thing to you._

"Behave yourselves," he said, and then he was gone.

Not until the door shut did Ratiri find he could actually breathe again. That…well, now he _really_ felt like a twat. He had panicked, yes, but that wasn't a good enough excuse. The King's intonation when he said 'fond' just made it worse.

"She will forgive you," Katje said, patting him on the arm. "Meanwhile, you need to see doctor about your panic attacks. Do not think I do not know about them," she added sternly. "I do not know what Von Ratched did to you, and you do not need to tell me, but you should tell _someone_. He try to break us all on purpose. Do not let him win."

She was right and he knew it, but that didn't make the thought of talking about it any less difficult. Especially since few of the Elves spoke much English. For now, he would settle for some kind of anti-anxiety potion, if such a thing even existed. He could not go off on someone like that again.

* * *

By the time Arandur reached the stable-gate, he was ready to die.

He'd hoped to catch up with Tauriel and her squadron along the way, but they had to have been running flat-out, for he never did find them. While Elves did not grow weary in the same manner as mortals, he was thoroughly sick and tired of travel by the time he got home, and seriously reconsidering his plans to wander Middle-Earth armed with a journal. This had not been nearly as much fun on his own as it was with other people.

Reaching home was wonderful, but he feared the reception he would receive. Imprisonment was almost a surety, with later banishment likely – but at least he would be imprisoned or banished with his friends. They could find somewhere to go together.

He rapped the signal on the gate, and was allowed in by a rather weary-looking Huoriel.

"Who's next?" she asked. "Dain? Bard? Lord Elrond? We've already got both his sons and Lady Galadriel."

"Lady Galadriel?" he asked, as the gate was shut behind him. "What in Eru's name could draw her from Lothlórien in the dead of winter?"

"Prince Legolas," Huoriel said, barring the gate. "You have missed much in your absence. The King lost his mind, and while he has not fully found it again, I no longer fear he will do someone an injury."

"Has he harmed any of the Edain?" Arandur asked, not certain he wanted to know the answer.

"I do not think so. He spoke with them last night, but Lady Galadriel was with them, and Menelwen says that while they returned shaken, they seemed otherwise unharmed. He did not do to them what he did to Lorna, and I do not think he has done anything ill to her again, either."

Well, that was a relief. And if Menelwen had seen the Edain, she must be walking about freely. Perhaps this would not be as terrible as he had feared.

"Go eat," Huoriel said, "and find fresh clothes. You have three new students now, should they wish to learn."

Should he be allowed to teach, he would happily do so.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she wasn't at first certain where or why she had fallen asleep. She was very warm, curled up under a heavy blanket, but she was in a chair, not a bed. It took a moment for memory to hit, and when it had, she sighed.

She was going to kill Thranduil.

Sitting up, she yawned. No one was dying until she'd had some tea, but once she was properly caffeinated, two people were on her hit list. A nap had not cured her fury at Ratiri, and somehow, her anger at Thranduil only made that even worse.

"Good morning, Dilthen Ettelëa. I know you slept well."

"I am going to murder you in the face," she grumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to push her tangled hair back. "Then I'll shave your eyebrows off and stuff the hair up your nose."

Thranduil laughed, and okay, _that_ was a little terrifying. "Why do my eyebrows offend you so?"

"I don't know," she said, sitting up. "They just do. What did you fuck up last night?" She found him sitting at his desk, doing something likely boring with parchment and quill.

"Nothing," he said, arching one of those annoying eyebrows. "I merely warned the other Edain against upsetting you."

Lorna groaned, head in her hands. "Thranduil you can't _do_ that. That's like if my mam went around to all the neighbors' houses and warned all their kids to play nice with me. Now none'v them will want anything to do with me."

Judging by his expression, he clearly had not thought of that. _Elves_.

"Just…don't do that again, okay? I know you probably meant well, but you freak people out, and I don't want all'v them too afraid to come near me." She looked up enough to glare at him. "And don't think I'll go forgetting that you bloody drugged me. You'll pay for that, once I'm awake enough to work out how."

"I did not _drug_ you," he said. "I sedated you."

"Same bloody thing."

"It's really not. Go back to sleep."

"Don't wanna."

"I do not think you have a great deal of choice. I watered your wine, but clearly not enough."

"You are the world's biggest twat."

"That, I think, is anatomically impossible for a number of reasons."

"Murder, Thranduil. Murder in the face."

"Oh, go the fuck to sleep."

* * *

Thranduil had multiple reasons for wanting to keep Lorna asleep – her inevitable (and justifiable) tantrum was one of them, but it did not top the list. No, he needed to speak with Lady Galadriel, but to his own annoyance, he feared to.

He had never liked the Lady of the Golden Wood – but then, it had been over a millennium since he had precisely _liked_ anyone. Her kindness and her wisdom grated on him, but it was her bloodline and her power that worried him. Save for Círdan, she was the oldest known Elf still living in Middle-Earth, and her power rivaled that of the Istari in their mortal form. And her uncle Fëanor and his sons had been, if not mad, close enough as to make no difference. Elrond was her son-in-law, but Thranduil had no family ties to blind him to the danger she could pose, should she choose to.

And now his sanity relied upon her. Upon her and upon Lorna, who was as yet wholly too incompetent to even begin attempting such a thing. But if Galadriel trained her to true competence, he feared what she would become.

Thranduil had not told Lorna just how much power was locked within her, and not only because he worried she might use it against him. No mortal should have such strength, and using it might well burn her up from the inside out. This Von Ratched was proof that it was possible it would not, but that kind of power changed a person. Right now she was aggravating and often childish, but good-hearted; should she discover what she was truly capable of, she might not remain so.

She had at present nothing in her life she cared enough about to anchor her, and thanks to Ratiri's idiocy, it looked to remain that way. Lorna did not forgive easily – Thranduil was not delusional enough to believe she had forgiven _him_, no matter that she was willing to tease him – and no mere apology would manage that.

Galadriel needed to know these things, before she tried to train Lorna enough to help him. Most likely she already did, but he had to make sure.

Naturally, she was already waiting for him in his lesser council chamber, calm and still as a pond at midnight, her form seeming to shine faintly in the low light. Her bright eyes followed him as she went to take a seat across from her, the heavy chair scraping across the floor.

"You fear much, son of Oropher," she said. "Not only for your own mind."

"I have reason," he said. "As should you. I have four Edain in my halls with magic of a sort I cannot comprehend, one of whom could be immensely dangerous if taught to her full potential. A fifth is, or soon will be, in Gondor, doing who knows how much damage. How many more like them will come to Middle-Earth? There are over eight _billion_ people in Lorna's world, and while not all o them are cursed, the magic behind the curses is spreading rapidly, and no one knows how, or why. I am proof that they can infect the Edain, whether they wish to or not. Yes, Lady Galadriel, I am afraid, as should we all be."

"All of your cursed are powerful," she said, "but Lorna is the only one who could be truly dangerous to many. However, you will need that."

"Why?" he asked, not liking _that_ thought in the least.

"Because, as you say, we can be infected. This doctor cannot hold a candle to us in raw strength, but he could cause a plague amongst us without knowing or trying. We cannot go near him, Thranduil. The only one who can get close enough to kill him is Lorna."

"I really did not need to hear that."

She smiled, but there was no humor in it. "I wish I need not say it."

Thranduil sighed. "She does not have enough here to keep her who she is," he said. "I had thought that Ratiri might prove enough, but he has offended her greatly. She may forgive him in time, but not soon enough."

"She has friends," Galadriel said. "For someone like Lorna, friendship might be more compelling than any other sort of companionship. Give them leave to spend time with her, and continue annoying her. She clearly enjoys throwing things at you."

"That she does," he said grimly. "And I am sure she will throw many more when she properly wakes. I sedated her so that I would have time to properly chastise that fool Ratiri."

"_Thranduil_." Galadriel actually looked slightly pained. "You cannot do that and then say that _she_ is the childish one."

"It was for the greater good.

_The greater good,_ his mind echoed – a movie she had seen that made her laugh herself sick, though he could not recall the name. Her memories were like a drug, and even now a large part of him wanted more of them – half the reason he had given her those mental blocks was to keep her safe from _him_.

Galadriel shook her head. "Thranduil, so long as you crave more of her mind, this will not work. Your madness stems from that craving."

"And how, Lady, am I supposed to do that? Though this is my own fault, I do not know how to stop it."

Her gaze turned stern. "Short of persuading her to show you the rest of her mind, the only thing that could aid you is yourself. You have faced greater hardships, Thranduil son of Oropher, and come through them. This strange addiction will not defeat you. Your son would never forgive you if it did."

Thought of Legolas made him wince. "He may already never forgive me for what I have done."

"Then do not give him further reason not to. I will work with Lorna. You work with yourself."

* * *

Arandur was not tremendously surprised that Katje and Geezer had already settled in so well. Most of the Guard seemed rather puzzled by them, but were welcoming enough.

Menelwen pounced on him as soon as she saw him. "You speak English better than any of us," she said. "Lorna is angry at one of the Edain, so I do not dare ask her for aid in translating. Geezer has the most fantastic tales of machines that fly through the air, but we cannot understand him very well."

"Is she well?" she asked.

"She is fine – just angry. It might be best if you check on her later, when she is not so infuriated. Galasríniel said she looked ready to kill Ratiri, though she would not say why."

That did not sound promising, but there was nothing Arandur could do about it right now. He allowed Menelwen to drag him to the guards' kitchen, where Geezer was attempting to draw something with a quill and parchment. Several failed attempts littered the table, which was also strewn with wine cups and crumb-filled plates. The other two Edain seemed to be arguing with him about the drawing, which was not helping – nor was the fact that both of Geezer's hands were swathed in bandages. Just what in Eru's name had happened while Arandur was away?

Katje, obviously very drunk, gave him a sunny smile and wove her way across the room to him – and, to his discomfort, wrapped her right arm around his shoulders and plastered herself against his side. "We missed you," she said.

"Katje, leave the kid alone," Geezer said. "Christ, you could fry an egg on his face."

Arandur's face did indeed feel rather hot, and the was quite relieved when Katje released him, pouting as she did.

"You people are all so pretty, and so celibate," she lamented. Arandur didn't know the word 'celibate', but its meaning was easy to guess.

"And your people are not?" he asked, trying to cover his embarrassment, and probably failing. Katje was certainly very different from the women of Dale, but she _was_ from another world. Then again, so was Lorna, and she was nothing like Katje in this way.

"Some are, some are not," she said. "I am not, and I wish you people were not either. I will never find job is all your world is like you."

"Job?" he asked, pouring a cup of wine and drinking half of it at one gulp.

"She says she was a call girl and part-time dominatrix," Menelwen said in Sindarin. "Whatever either of those things are."

"Wasn't a job, young lady," Geezer called. He was still fighting with the quill, and apparently losing.

"Hush, old man," Katje said cheerfully. "I have license and pay taxes. That is job."

"Only in the very loosest definition of the word. Don't you dare try to set up shop when we go back to Dale."

"Who says I want to go back?" she asked, picking up someone's discarded wine. "Elves bathe and brush their teeth. I endure celibacy for basic hygiene."

Geezer snorted, but the other man, the tall, dark Edain, didn't look amused. He looked, in fact, extremely troubled, as though the only reason he was here was because he didn't want to be alone.

"What is wrong with him?" Arandur asked in Sindarin.

"He is the one Lorna is angry with. He upset her, she hit him, and now none of us knows where she is. No matter how many times we ask Galasríniel, she will not tell us just what happened, so it _must_ have been bad. Perhaps you can get her to speak."

"I doubt it," he said. "She is a healer. They never discuss anything unrelated to wounds."

He would find Lorna later. Even if she would not tell him exactly what had happened with _this_, he really wanted to know everything else that had gone on since she arrived.

* * *

Lorna's dreams were troubled.

_She dreamt she was in a place her mind called the Institute, though she did not know why, as she had never actually seen it. It was the same sterile hospital-prison where she'd seen Von Ratched in a previous dream, but empty now, dark and silent. Moonlight filtered in through the windows, pale and cold, reflecting off the polished tile. This entire facility was brand-new – though, with the logic of dreams, she did not know how she knew that. She just did._

_Down the hallway she went, though there was no sensation of walking – she was only an observer here, and there was little enough to observe. There was only a feeling of tension, a terrible air of anxiety, though whether it came from her or was impressed upon her, she couldn't tell. Perhaps it was both._

_The landscape outside was flat and harsh, nothing but scrub brush stretching to the horizon, with no buildings or even roads to be seen. This, she knew with unfounded but unshakable certainty, was where Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri had come from – where she would have gone, had she not crashed through the windscreen and into Middle-Earth. What terrible fate had she escaped by coming here?_

_Her brain seemed determined to show her, albeit in a strange, broken way. The scene shifted – she was lying on a hard table, arms, legs, and head restrained, while that terrible doctor fiddled with some silvery machine._

_Needles pierced her temples, and though it was not painful, it felt wrong, so wrong. Sounds and visions flooded her mind, without pattern or coherence, the pressure rising until it struck some unknown barrier, and she screamed –_

Shift

_-Another room, another table, but Ratiri was here, too, and in the dream she wasn't furious at him, she was terrified_ for_ him – sweet, _normal_ Ratiri, who knew nothing of pain or suffering and would be broken by both, and on there _was_ pain, pain and a horrible intrusive presence in her mind – _

Shift

_-Running, running under a blue sky, sweating though the air was frigid, the stench of smoke sharp in the air, and then darkness, the horrible burning sting of tear gas –_

Shift

_-An office, bright light and the scent of furniture polish and incense, sweat and smoke and gasoline and that was her, wasn't it? Her throat was scratched and raw, her eyes stinging. It was a gurney she was tied to this time – variety, she supposed – and Von Ratched was there, though she couldn't understand what he said, and then her mind, oh God her _mind,_ what was he _doing –

Shift

_-Blood and snow and fire, wolves around her, and she was so very, very_ powerful, _the force of her curse coursing through her veins like a living thing, and she had choice to make, a choice that would decide who and what she would become, but there was a blank space in her memory, a hole that she knew contained pain and rage and so much terror, because something terrible had been done to her and she didn't want to know what, and oh Christ, it_ hurt,_ everything_ hurt so much –

Lorna woke with a start, and managed to sit up enough that when she sicked up, it was on the floor rather than the chair. Shudders wracked through her, of both bewilderment and terror; icy sweat stuck her thrice-damned dress to her skin, dampening her hair. She tasted salt on her lips, but it wasn't sweat – when she touched her nose, her fingers came away bloody.

She let out a cry of formless horror, struggling off the chair only to land hard on her knees, the impact of bone on the stone floor jarring through her.

"Lorna –_ Lorna._" That was Thranduil's voice, and it was Thranduil who hauled her up off the floor as though she weighed no more than a child, setting her back on the chair. "It was a nightmare, Lorna," he said, pressing a square of fabric under her nose. She wanted to believe him, but why was her nose bleeding? He'd fixed that, hadn't he?

"I saw," she said, her voice muffled by the cloth. "I saw, oh Christ I saw -"

"What did you see?" he asked, with exaggerated calm. He didn't look any happier about the blood than she felt.

"I think I saw what would've happened, if I'd stayed on Earth," she managed at last. "Christ am I glad I came here, but I think something went wrong back there when I did." Some terrible instinct told her that without her presence at the Institute, things had been much worse for everyone else. It sounded unspeakably arrogant, but at the same time, it made sense: Von Ratched was a telepath, as was she. If he'd got his hands on her, he probably would have spent loads of time trying to pick her apart to see how she ticked, which would have made a pretty bloody big difference to the others. Without her, they'd got a lot more of his attention.

"This should not be happening to you," Thranduil said, taking the cloth away to check on her nose, which was still bleeding.

"Which 'this'?" she asked, more than a little bitterly. She couldn't help but think of Ratiri has she'd so briefly seen him in her dream; such a different man he was from the one she'd met in the waking world.

Christ, how was this her life? She wished she was back in her van, meandering the States and living off what she panhandled with her guitar.

She didn't realize she'd voiced the thought aloud until Thranduil said, "At least your life cannot be called dull."

Lorna laughed. She couldn't help it, any more than she could help how hysterical it sounded. "On Earth, there's this saying that I think comes from China – it's a curse disguised as a blessing: 'may you live in interesting times.' 'Interesting' usually doesn't mean 'fun'." And oh, wonderful. Apparently her atrophied tear ducts had to go and betray her – how the hell had_ that_ happened? She tried to duck her head, because the last thing she needed right now was for Thranduil to see her cry, but he wouldn't let her.

"Oh, go away, Drag Queen Barbie," she said. "Let me be a snotty human mess in peace."

"I cannot do that, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, sounding markedly less obnoxious than normal. "Not with your nose bleeding. If you die in my study, I will never forgive you."

She choked on another laugh, smaller this time, and mingled with the stupid tears she couldn't stop. "When humans die, they shit their pants," she said. "I'd wreck your chair, and then you'd _really_ never forgive me."

He gave her a look that was completely unimpressed. "You are a disgusting creature," he said, pulling her into a hug she wished she didn't need. "And if you tell anyone I did this, I might just kill you anyway, regardless of what you soil yourself on."

His robe (_dress_, damn it) was as soft as her blanket, and so fine that she actually felt a little bad for bleeding on it. "You're a berk. And if you tell anyone I needed a hug, I'll rip your arm off and beat you with it."

"I question the mechanics of that," he said, wrapping her blanket around her.

"Of course you do," she said, obscurely resentful of how comfortable she was. "Hey Thranduil?"

"Yes?"

"I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, it pisses people off and it's really quite absurd."

He let out the most long-suffering sigh she had ever heard in her life. "Come spring, I am feeding you to a baby spider. Tomorrow, however, you need to see Lady Galadriel. Whatever this is, I cannot heal it on my own."

* * *

Lorna's nightmare was indeed made up of things that happened to her in her actual book – though fortunately for her, it wasn't nearly all of them. Yet.

Title means "Bad Dreams" in Irish.

As ever, reviews are love. Though it is not Valentine's day, love is still wonderful.


	27. Tinneas

In which Von Ratched's influence grows, Ratiri has a major problem, and Lorna is not a happy bunny.

* * *

It really was a good thing Thranduil had put the blocks on Lorna's mind, because the temptation to see what she had dreamt about for himself was almost overwhelming.

But really, could he be blamed for that? _Anyone_ would be curious. Not many were graced with the knowledge of what might have been.

Even with all the silver in her hair, she looked very young when she slept. He knew that she was well into adulthood by the standards of Edain, but there were times she did not seem like it. Her nose was still bleeding, but sluggishly now – it was nothing like the terrible amount she had lost on the way from Dale.

He needed Galadriel's aid, but he did not dare leave Lorna to go find her, so Lorna was bundled up, blanket, wild tangle of hair and all, and carried through the hallways like a load of wash. At this hour, Galadriel would likely (hopefully) be in her room, because while Lorna didn't care much about dignity, _he_ did, and carrying the Anger Management Hairball was not precisely dignified. The things he suffered in the name of…well, he didn't know what anymore. The thirst for knowledge that had started this mess would never now be satisfied.

The dark thing that even now lurked in his mind told him how easy it would be to plunder the minds of the other three Edain. Fortunately for them, Galadriel was here, and would brook no such thing.

Equally fortunately, there were none about to see him, and he made it to Galadriel's chambers without witness. If she was startled by him and his cargo, she gave no sign – but then, she would not. Thranduil wondered if she had ever been truly startled by anything.

"I do not know what is wrong with her," he said, without preamble. "I thought I had healed the injury to her mind, but this was brought by a dream." He set Lorna on the couch beside the fire – she grumbled a little, but did not wake. "I fear letting her sleep, but I cannot force her to stay awake. For whatever reason, she believes she has dreamt of what would have happened, had she not come to Middle-Earth."

"It is not outside the realm of possibility," Galadriel said, brushing the hair back from Lorna's forehead. "Without knowing how the Edain have come to this world, I dare not say anything is impossible. I do not believe they have come here naturally – something has brought them, though I cannot fathom why. Wake, Lorna. Wake, and tell us what you have seen."

Wake Lorna did, twitching. Her eyes widened when she saw Galadriel, and she tried to recoil, but only succeeded in smacking her head on the arm of the sofa.

"Son'v a motherless cockbag," she said in English, rubbing her head.

Thranduil snorted before he could stop himself. "It is a good thing she cannot speak English," he said, and then, in Sindarin, "Did you dream?"

Lorna shook her head, though she didn't look at him – she was watching Galadriel with a stare that bordered on fascination. Thranduil found himself rather annoyed that she should treat anyone with such reverence, mostly because he had not thought her capable of it.

"Why do you believe you have dreamt of what might have been, Lorna?" Galadriel asked.

"I don't know," she said, struggling to sit up. "Instinct, I guess. I could be wrong, but I don't think so. It was all too real – I don't normally have such vivid dreams, or I didn't used to. Not until I came to Middle-Earth. This was the Institute – Geezer and Katje and Ratiri were there, and Von Ratched ran the place, and he did…well, I think he did things to me. Other…things." She looked at the fire, far more uncomfortable than Thranduil had ever seen her.

"What sort of things?" he asked, uncertain what 'other' meant.

Lorna squirmed, hugging her blanket tighter around her shoulders. "The kinds'v things Elves probably don't do to each other. Like what he did to my mind, just…physical."

_Oh_.

Galadriel looked terribly grave, her pale face like a mask, but her eyes filled with a mix of sympathy and worry. "Lorna, I wish to say this no more than you wish to hear it, but when you dream again, you must take Thranduil with you. I cannot go myself without risking infection, but he is already infected."

Lorna looked understandably alarmed by that, but not half so alarmed as Thranduil felt. "That will _kill her_," he said.

"It will not. I can heal the damage, but you must see what she sees. You already know more than her world of any other Elf."

He did not need to be reminded of _that_, and he doubted Lorna did, either.

"Don't I get a bloody say in this?" she asked, shivering a little.

Galadriel took her hand. "No one will force you to do anything, Lorna," she said. "But I fear that your coming here is as the first pebble in a landslide that might spell doom for your own world. I cannot know how many more of your kind might follow you here, but if they are as powerful as you, it could alter your world's future as well as ours."

Lorna was quiet, staring into the fire again. "I was powerful, in the dream," she said at last. "I don't know how I'd got that way, but I was. I could feel it in my veins, and I could move things with my mind."

"Trauma," Galadriel said.

Lorna looked at her. "Huh?"

"Trauma. It would have unlocked that which your mind does not yet allow you to use. We must find a different way to do so, though I will have to think on how before we proceed with that. For now, sit calm, and when you sleep again, Thranduil will go with you.'

"I warn you again, Lady Galadriel, that will likely kill her," he said, beyond frustrated.

"Her mind knows you," Galadriel said. "I would not ask this of either of you if I thought it would harm her. Lorna, will you do this?"

Lorna sighed. "Haven't got much choice, have I? I'd rather not somehow be responsible for the end'v the world. Either world."

Galadriel smiled, and it seemed to calm her. "Good. For now, eat and drink, and I will do what I can for whatever ails your brain."

* * *

Ecthelion, Von Ratched realized, was what his son would have been, had Denethor not been snared by the Palantír. He was a just man, and a strong one, and that made him all the easier to take over.

Von Ratched did not turn his acquisitions into puppets. They retained something like their normal will – he simply guided them. An automaton would be easily noticed, but someone who still behaved as they always had would usually pass undetected.

The range of his gift was less than two miles, but he had found a way around that some eighty years ago: he planted a seed of his mind in one person, who in turn infected another, and another. It was in this way that he enthralled the entire city of Minas Tirith in two days.

He lay now on his bed in the quarters he had quietly appropriated, going over all Ecthelion knew of their neighbors. The fire burned high, keeping the room very warm; it had grown even colder outside, and a trace of snow had fallen over the course of the day. The bed was not as comfortable as the one he had left behind at the Institute, but it was comfortable enough.

Rohan did not concern him, though with Saruman as its neighbor, he did not dare suborn its people yet. The attention of a wizard was not something he wanted. The entire region of Anorien was as yet too sparsely populated to be of any real use to him, but neither was it a threat.

No, it was Lothlórien that concerned him.

The Elves of the Woodland Realm were downright isolationist, and likely would not trouble him no matter what he did, but Lady Galadriel, especially with her Mirror, could prove to be a massive problem. Should she come marching in his direction, he needed an escape route, for he did not dare allow her anywhere near him. As much as Von Ratched disliked acknowledging that there were greater threats than he, failing to do so in Middle-Earth would be terminally stupid. He could not afford to ignore his own limitations, however much their existence irked him.

Ithilien would be his net target, and then Dol Amroth. He would use them all to hunt, because of one thing he was sure: if he was here, he was not alone, or would not be for long. Ratiri, Katje, and Geezer had to be about somewhere, and others would surely follow. And when they did, he would find them, and he would use them. If he could gather enough of the cursed to him, Saruman might not remain a problem forever.

* * *

Menelwen, accompanied by an extremely agitated Katje, turned up on Arandur's doorstep very, very early in the morning. He had been sleeping off his travel fatigue, and was not at all happy about being woken, but when he saw Katje, he forbore complaint. She was so distressed her skin had gone grey, her blue eyes wide with panic.

"Something is wrong with Ratiri," Menelwen said. "I do not know enough English to translate to the healers."

Arandur threw on a dressing-gown over his nightclothes, hurrying after them. "What is it?"

"Something was done to him in the prison he came from," Menelwen said. "I could not properly understand Katje's explanation. The doctor that Lorna fears so much did something to his mind, something that causes him debilitating pain, but there seems to be more than that. You will have to ask him, but I fear that we will have to send for Lady Galadriel."

_That_ was a terrifying thought. He hurried faster, wondering just what he would find.

Nothing good, it appeared. The man in question was lying on one of the tables in the healing ward, ashen and sweaty, his eyes squeezed shut, shivering as though in deep cold. Galasríniel and two of the older healers were with him, though none seemed to know just what to do. Geezer stood beside them, one of his bandaged hands rested on Ratiri's shoulder.

"Tell Arandur," Katje said, dodging out of the way.

Geezer looked up. "Kid sees auras," he said. "Light that surrounds people. Von Ratched tried to – to use his eyes, I guess I'd say, but it's fucked up something in his brain. I dunno if it's physical or just mental, but it takes him like this sometimes."

"What would this Von Ratched do, when it happened?" Arandur asked, peering at Ratiri's f ace. The man didn't seem aware of his own surroundings.

"Watch," Geezer said grimly. "Can you tell those three what I told you?"

Arandur did, as best he could, unable to take his eyes off the poor man. Not being a warrior, his experience with the suffering of others was limited, and he had no idea how to deal with it.

Galasríniel must have, for she hurried to the shelves, pulling down bottles and jars. Amaniel joined her, while Iólel put a pillow beneath Ratiri's head, whispering soothing words which seemed to have no effect. His tension was so great that Arandur feared for his heart – mortals could die of heart failure, could they not? He had a hazy idea that that usually only happened among older Edain, but 'usually' was not 'always'. He could actually smell the man's terror, sharp and bitter, joining the scent of crushed herbs.

Liquid sloshed in a cup, and when Galasríniel brought it to Ratiri, Geezer had to help him sit up to drink it. He choked on it, and they had to pause while he coughed, his face growing ever greyer, his eyes peering into some inner void.

It took them nearly five minutes to get it all down his throat, but his tension eased almost immediately. "We need Lady Galadriel," Iólel said. "Whatever ails him, it is beyond my skill to heal."

"But she cannot touch his mind," Arandur protested. "It would infect her."

Iólel's grey eyes narrowed. "Get. Lady. Galadriel," she ordered. "As soon as she is willing to come, bring her here. Tell her that it is very urgent, and we cannot do without her."

Thought of disturbing the Lady of Lothlórien at this hour almost made Arandur quail, but Iólel was a stern and unforgiving healer who would likely box his ears if he lingered. Off he went, and Menelwen, Eru bless her, went with him. This was not quite so terrifying a prospect when he had company.

Not quite.

He knew that Lady Galadriel would not be angry, especially once she knew the cause for their errand, but even being near so powerful an elleth was disconcerting. Arandur had thought the King was imposing, but Galadriel was far more so. She was almost a figure of legend to Arandur, having been in so much of the history he'd read. He felt nervous as an elfling when they reached her door, and he almost couldn't bring himself to knock. When he did, it was hesitant, hardly making a sound at all.

He nearly fainted when she opened it, though her expression was nothing but kind. His voice was nowhere to be found, even when Menelwen kicked him.

"My Lady, we need your aid," she said. "Iólel the healer begs your assistance – one of our Edain is ill, and she does not know what to do."

"Ill in what way?" Galadriel asked.

"Something was done to him in his own world," Menelwen said, "by one of his fellow cursed. There is something wrong with his mind."

"I will come," Galadriel said, her voice and her face grave, "but I cannot touch his mind. It is not safe."

"_I_ can."

At this point, Arandur supposed he should not be surprised that Lorna had somehow wound up in Lady Galadriel's chambers. He had no idea _how_, but he would certainly be asking her later. He watched her stagger off the sofa, looking much like a great mass of hair with a dress.

"You will do no such thing." Oh, and of course the King would be here as well, because why not? Eru forbid this errand be simple.

"Once again, Thranduil, you are not my mother. Arandur, who is it that's sick?"

"Ratiri," Arandur said, wondering if he could get away with fleeing.

"Oh." She hesitated a little, and Arandur wondered why.

"_No_, Lorna. I thought you were angry at him, anyway."

How could she not be affected by the fact that the King towered over her? She truly did not seem to care, if her rather sleepy glare was any indication.

"That doesn't mean I want him to die, or go insane, or…whatever. I'm a telepath and I'm human – he won't hurt me. Stay here and get drunk, if it annoys you so much.

Arandur exchanged a glance with Menelwen, who shrugged. "They do that."

"It does not _annoy_ me, it concerns me," the King said, but he made no move to stop her as she headed for the door.

"Of course it annoys you," she said. "_Everything_ annoys you. Hell, _breathing_ probably annoys you."

"Children," Lady Galadriel said gently, and Lorna winced guiltily.

"Sorry," she said. "I'll help, whether Drag Queen Barbie wants me to or not."

"What does that epessë mean in your tongue?" Galadriel asked, as she led Lorna and the King out into the corridor.

"Er," Lorna said, "in my world, Barbie is a doll unusually played with by little girls. She's tall, and has long blonde hair. A drag queen is a man who dresses in women's clothing."

The King looked positively murderous, but to Arandur's immense surprise, Lady Galadriel _laughed_. It was a quiet laugh, and gentle, but a laugh it was.

"I like her, Thranduil," she said. "If you do not keep her, I will take her."

"You will have to fight your grandsons, my Lady," Menelwen said. "They want to take her to Rivendell."

"Nobody's keeping me or taking me anywhere until I've killed Von Ratched," Lorna said. "Come on, you two. Get going, before Ratiri's brain melts or something."

* * *

Galadriel really _did_ want to steal this odd little woman. She was a dangerous creature, far more so than she or even Thranduil knew, but she could be capable of great things, too, if properly trained. It was such a terrible pity that she was Edain, and would die all too soon.

She moved surprisingly swiftly for one so small, interrogating Arandur and Menelwen. Galadriel fell a little behind, walking beside Thranduil, who looked about as happy as a cat in a bath. She would not lie – seeing him so aggravated was incredibly amusing.

"If she kills herself doing this, I am doomed," he said darkly. "I, and everyone else this Von Ratched might threaten."

"If anyone might be harmed by this, it is not her," Galadriel said. "Mortals are not as fragile as you think."

"I hope you are right. She has endured much these last weeks, and most of it is my fault." He was scowling at nothing.

"That you are willing to admit that does you credit." She meant it, too; always Thranduil had been arrogant, but now, though he was still arrogant, he was marginally more open.

Predictably, he said nothing to that – did not speak at all, in fact, until they had reached the healing wards, and discovered a small crowd. The Elves bowed, Katje stared at her as one entranced, and Geezer said something what he spotted Thranduil that could only be a curse.

Lorna said something in her own language that quieted him, and approached the prone Ratiri. The man looked all but unconscious, sweating profusely, his face a rictus of hazy, dull pain.

"Hush now, allanah," she said gently, and then switched to her own language as she laid an even gentler hand on his face. She was obviously nervous, at least to Galadriel's eyes, but interestingly, the mask she wore to cover it was very like Thranduil. It would seem his mind had influenced hers as well – just less blatantly.

"What does 'allanah' mean?" Galadriel asked, so quietly only Thranduil would hear her.

"'Little dear one'," he said, just as quietly. "Why is _he_ 'little dear one', yet I am Drag Queen Barbie?"

Galadriel managed not to smile. "A question best put to her. What is she saying?" Lorna's voice was soft and soothing, like a mother speaking to a frightened child.

"That she can help him, if he will allow her into his mind," Thranduil said. "She seems to be stressing that it would be entirely voluntary on his part, which I think might be the only way he will accept."

The agony in the man's eyes now was not only physical – he was gripped by fear and indecision, so wracked with misery that Galadriel's heart hurt for him.

Lorna touched his hair, still gentle, still soothing, and whatever she said next made Thranduil's jaw clench.

"She says that she is sorry she was not there to protect him," he said. "That this was not the way things were meant to happen, but that she can protect him now, if he will allow it."

That must have worked, for Ratiri nodded slowly. Lorna touched his face, and went still with concentration.

Galadriel wondered if the others realized how much power she was unconsciously exerting. Lorna was no Eldar, but neither was she properly Edain – none of the cursed were, but it was most evident in her. Something in her own world had touched her, had marked her for greatness – and then lost her. How many such others would be taken from it? How many Lornas were there – avatars of some power wholly beyond them?

The pain left Ratiri's expression, and he too lay still. In another reality, perhaps they had been destined for one another, but here? Now? Galadriel was not so sure. Whoever Lorna had been in her world, touching Thranduil's mind had changed her, and Galadriel could only hope there would be no dire consequences for that later. Nobody, including these cursed Edain, knew anything about their magic.

Katje and Geezer both looked like they wanted to draw closer, but didn't dare – and Katje was looking at Lorna with vague distrust. After experiencing whatever that Von Ratched man had done, Galadriel could not fault her for it – her panic at even the suggested brush of Galadriel's thoughts had been terrible.

Ratiri's face went peaceful as sleep took him, but Lorna's was grey with exertion and growing horror. Thranduil's hands twitched, but he stayed where he was, letting her do whatever it was she was doing.

At long last she stood straight, removing her hand from Ratiri's face. She said something to Katje and Geezer, and then, in Sindarin, "He'll be fine. He just needs to sleep."

She looked at Galadriel, then at Thranduil, then at Ratiri – and fled.

"Follow her, Thranduil," Galadriel said. "I will see to Ratiri."

Thranduil shot the poor man a glower that was entirely unfair, and stalked out after Lorna.

* * *

What did Lorna see in Ratiri's head? Bad, bad things. Thranduil gets to find out allll about them next chapter, which he will regret.

Title means "Illness" in Irish


	28. I Aisling

In which Von Ratched makes his presence known in ways nobody likes, Galadriel gets some information out of Geezer that makes her realize just how royally screwed they might be if more cursed show up, and Thranduil starts to wonder just what the hell he's really been harboring all this time.

* * *

Lorna had a system for dealing with utterly horrifying things – unfortunately it involved getting blackout drunk, which was probably not a good idea so soon after Thranduil had drugged her.

Good fucking _God_, she didn't think she could ever be angry at Ratiri again. It wasn't even so much what Von Ratched had done (though that was bad enough) as how and why he had done it.

He'd dug through Lorna's mind like a clerk through a file cabinet, taking no care at all to hurt her, but it had been routine, impersonal. What he had done to Ratiri – and presumably, to Katje and Geezer – was outright sadistic.

She shivered as she walked, wishing she had boots. There was a fissure in the roof of the cavern not far away, and though it would be too bloody cold to stay near it for long, she needed to feel that clean chill, and breathe fresh air. The stone was already frigid beneath her bare feet, and her stupid dress, still sweaty, stuck cold and clammy against her skin. She'd want a hot bath later, to try to scald away the memory of all she'd just seen.

When she reached the fissure, the light of the setting moon shone through it, a shaft of silver that pierced the dimness. The air that came through it was indeed frigid, but it smelled of snow, and Lorna shut her eyes, drawing it deep into her lungs.

"What did you see?"

She wasn't surprised Thranduil had followed her – his curiosity likely demanded it. "You don't want to know," she said, and meant it.

"Perhaps not," he said, "but I am sure I have seen worse in my life."

Lorna opened her eyes. Thranduil looked so young that it was easy to forget he was probably thousands of years old. "Then there's no reason to add to it. Bad enough I'll have nightmares – you don't need them, too." She shivered, shifting her feet on the cold stone. "I just need a minute. And some boots. And some bloody trousers – seriously, Thranduil, enough with the damn dresses already. I know you're just giving me them to annoy me."

He smirked, but there was none of his usual smugness. "You are right," he said. "You are also mortal, and it is very cold. Come away from there before your feet freeze, and show me what you saw."

She didn't want to do either, but her feet really _were_ freezing, and the rest of her was fast following suit. She didn't want to show Thranduil all the horrible things she'd seen in Ratiri's mind – she wanted a bath, and then something that would allow her to sleep without dreaming. Thranduil, however, was a stubborn bastard, and would probably poke her with a stick if he had to. "Fine," she said. "But you're going to regret this."

"Of that I have little doubt," he said, leading her back down the corridor. At this criminally early hour, nobody was about, so she didn't have to explain why she was barefoot, exhausted, and with hair so tangled it looked like the Thing that Ate Cincinnati.

They went not to Thranduil's rooms, but to Galadriel's, no doubt in case something went wrong. The fire had burned down, but he poked at it and added wood, and the brighter light allowed Lorna to really look around. This room was somewhat different than most others she'd seen – the walls were of a paler stone, the shape of the carved trees far straighter and slimmer, and inlaid with gold rather than silver. This was a guest room tailed to a specific guest, which surprised her, since Thranduil didn't exactly seem fond of Galadriel. (Then again, he didn't seem fond of _anyone_, except his son.)

He must have read her thoughts on her face, for he said, "A monarch must always be prepared to have high-born visitors, whether he likes them or not."

"You're pretty rude to Elrond," she said, thinking on some of the memories she'd taken from him.

"Elrond is not Galadriel, and you are stalling. Sit."

She made a face at him. "Yes, Mother."

"I think I would rather you call me Drag Queen Barbie. It is less disturbing."

"Also less amusing. Fine, Drag Queen Barbie, let's get this over with – but like I said, you're going to regret it." She hopped up onto the sofa, taking a moment to enjoy the heat of the fire. This couch was a lot more comfortable than the one in the room she really hoped she'd get back again, and that was really saying something – it felt like sitting on a damn cloud.

Thranduil sat beside her, turning a little to face her, and she paused. He was ancient by her standards, and she knew from what she had of his memories that he had seen terrible things, but they were things of this world – dragons and orcs and wargs. She really doubted the humans in Middle-Earth were capable of the sort of cruelty as those on Earth – for one thing, they didn't have the technology. He had seen what Von Ratched did to her, but what he had done to Ratiri was much worse.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "I really am." Closing her eyes, she called up the memory, and gave it to him.

_Always in the Institute it was either too hot or too cold. The room Ratiri was in now was the former, so much so that he was sweating. There was a strange chemical odor, stinging in his sinuses, leaving a bitter, astringent taste at the back of his throat._

_For once, he was seated rather than lying prone, though his arms and legs were strapped to the chair. Facing him was another inmate whose name he did not know – a tall, young, fair-haired man with Coke-bottle glasses, obviously heavily sedated. His aura was a calm swirl of green and gold, with delicate threads of an unpleasant grey woven through it. Grey usually signaled distress or pain; if he could feel either through so much sedation, Ratiri didn't want to imagine what it would be like when he was coherent._

_"I wish to borrow your senses, Duncan." Von Ratched was behind him, doing God knew what – it probably involved needles, because it always did._

_Ratiri said nothing, having learned by now that it was wisest to remain silent around Von Ratched. Sure enough, a needle stung the side of his neck, and it wasn't long before an overwhelming lassitude took hold of him. Perhaps this would not be one of the more painful tests._

_One of the terrifying things about Von Ratched was that, though his mental intrusion was often painful, it wasn't always. The bastard could be so careful that you would never know he was there, which made the entire Institute terribly paranoid – some of the staff as well as the inmates. When it did hurt, it was because Von Ratched wanted it to._

_There was no pain today – not at first, anyway. The only reason Ratiri was aware of Von Ratched's presence was the sharpening of his vision, which always seemed to happen, though he had no idea how. The boy's aura shifted to crystal clarity, and now there was pain, sharp as broken glass. With it came a crushing sense of hopelessness, of futility –_ you are an insect_, it said without words, _worthless but for what results I can wring from you._ It was the mantra of Von Ratched, not heard but_ felt_._

_And yet here the memory changed – it had been of Von Ratched forcing Ratiri to manipulate the boy's aura, causing writhing agony to both, but in Lorna's mind if shifted, greying out to mental static before she could even try to figure out what the hell happened, a voice she had hoped to never hear again echoed through her mind._

Hello, Lorna. I've missed you.

* * *

Lying on his bed, Von Ratched smiled. He had not known where Duncan was, until Donovan touched his mind. He _had_ missed her – the sole other telepath he had ever found, who had so infuriatingly slipped through his grasp. He did not yet know where she was, but if she and Duncan were there, DaVries and Geezer might be as well. Perhaps he could gather all his wayward children.

He lost Donovan's mind almost as soon as he found it – something shut him out, and he very much doubted it was her. It was likely she was with Elves, then, because he knew of no other telepaths in Middle-Earth – certainly there could be none who could rival him. Elves were immortal, unnatural creatures; humans, on the other hand, could never be a match for him. Not even Lorna, no matter how hard she tried. And he had very little doubt that she would.

* * *

Thranduil slammed a barrier down on Lorna's mind as soon as he heard the voice, and wondered how in Eru's name Von Ratched had circumvented the first one. Galadriel was going to have to build shields for all four of them.

To his surprise, Lorna did not panic, as anyone with any sense ought to have. She sat very still, and her expression made him realize that he had never seen her truly murderous until now. Her unnerving eyes were bright with a rage not hot but cold, and so reptilian that he almost recoiled. This was not an Edain who sat before him – not even a cursed one. Something had touched her in a way the others did not share, something so alien it could only have come from her world.

"I'll kill that son'v a bitch," she said flatly. "We know he's here now, at least." Her voice was her own, but her eyes – her terrible, glacial green eyes – belonged to something else entirely. Thranduil wasn't sure if he was fascinated or repelled.

"What _are_ you, Lorna?" he asked.

"I don't even know anymore. Angry. Angry and I don't know what else." Profound weariness entered her face. "I'm not supposed to be anything," she said, resting her head against the back of the couch and drawing her knees up under her chin. "None'v us humans are, and we're all changing. You've seen my world, Thranduil – magic didn't exist. It _shouldn't_ exist, and now we've brought it to your bloody world. If anybody ought to have these curses, it's Elves. You lot have magic already."

"That is possibly why we do not have them," he said. "You saw what yours did to me. Bad things happen when Elves lose their minds. I do not want to imagine the damage Lady Galadriel could do, should your curse infect her."

Lorna shuddered. "Thranduil, do me a favor, will you? If I go like Von Ratched – if I start using my curse to hurt people – kill me, will you?"

"_No_," he said, so vehemently he surprised even himself. "You will not become like him, Lorna Donovan. You have friends and a home here, people of your kind and mine. I know you, Lorna, better than anyone in this or any other world. You can be vindictive and horrendously childish, but you are not cruel."

She arched an eyebrow. "_I'm_ childish? This from the Elf who keeps giving me dresses just because he knows it annoys me? Who calls me _Little_ Stranger?"

He matched her eyebrow. "Three words, Lorna: Drag Queen Barbie."

She kicked him, though not hard. "Oh, shut it. It fits."

"I do not wear women's clothing."

Lorna looked pointedly at his robe. "That is a goddamn dress, and you will never convince me otherwise. I don't care if you've got trousers under it – it still has a bloody skirt. I'll stop _calling_ it a dress, though, if you give _me_ some trousers."

"But you would still think of it as a dress," he said.

"Well, yeah, but at least you wouldn't hear me say it." She gave him what she probably thought was an innocent smile.

"You are horrendously obnoxious," he sighed.

"Pot, this is kettle. We need to have a discussion about your hue value."

* * *

Ratiri was sleeping peacefully now, as calm and healthy as an Edain could be.

The healers had moved him to a proper room, with a comfortable bed and warm fire. They had brought a cot for Katje to sleep on, but Geezer sat awake, watching over them both. Here, Galadriel thought, was a man who ought to have had children – having been denied them by blood, he had found them in spirit.

"What other curses might those who come here possess?" she asked quietly. Arandur, who lurked beside her, translated.

Geezer shook his head, still watching Ratiri. "All sorts. There's a boy who sets things on fire if he's not kept sedated, and two people who float in the air. One man can melt anything he touches, and another interferes with anything electrical." Arandur did not seem to know what that meant, and Galadriel did not, either.

"There are some outside the Institute who can cause earthquakes, and some who affect the weather. He has heard of at least one who can walk through walls."

Edain who could affect the very earth and weather…that was an unsettling thought, even to Galadriel. "Thranduil tells me there are eight billion people in your world. How many are like you?"

Arandur choked a little before he translated. "He does not know. The curses were spreading rapidly before he was taken to the Institute, and if it has continued at that rate, there could be millions by now."

_That_ was even more disturbing. If only it was not winter – she wished to send word to Elrond, but it would be over a month before the mountains would be passable.

Few knew that the Enemy had returned, but Elrond was one of them. Should Sauron find any of these cursed and bend them to his will, it might well spell doom for Middle-Earth. He was weak yet, but his strength would return.

And yet they might just as easily prove a hindrance to him. Sauron was a name that struck terror into the hearts of all who lived in Middle-Earth, but the cursed were not of this world. This Von Ratched man seemed to have an agenda all his own. It would certainly be a difficult thing to deal with, but not half so difficult as _Sauron._

Galadriel hoped that most of the cursed would be like these four. None of them had asked for these abilities, and none seemed to really _want_ them – not even Lorna, whose curse had just been of great use. Their curses had brought them to Von Ratched, who had traumatized them greatly.

Tomorrow, if any of them were able, she wanted to truly speak with them, one at a time. If there was anything to be discovered about this magic, she wanted to find it, before Eru knew how many of them were dropped in Middle-Earth.

* * *

_Lorna hadn't wanted to go to sleep, but eventually she hadn't been able to help it. She'd been hoping Thranduil wouldn't be able to follow her, but no such luck – he'd joined her in a dream so crystal-sharp and vivid that it made her question whether or not she was really asleep._

_She – they – were standing in a vast garden, ankle-deep in grass soft as velvet. It was night here, too, but warm – summer, not winter. The full moon gilded the blades of grass, rendering the nearby tangle of morning-glories various shades of silver. This was a wild sort of garden, and huge – it stretched out as far as she could see in any direction. The scent of lavender competed with lilac, a fragrance that hung heavy in the motionless air. The only sound came from a small brook to her right, babbling between moss-covered stones dotted here there with delicate deer-ferns._

_Well. This wasn't what she'd expected._

_"Where are we?" Thranduil asked._

_"I have no bloody idea," she said. "Nowhere I've ever been, that's for damn sure. If I had been, I'd never have left." She dug at the grass with her bare toe. Whatever this place was, it didn't exactly feel like Earth – there was a power here that almost made her teeth ache, dancing across her skin like static electricity. She didn't bother asking Thranduil if he felt it, too – he surely did, and more intensely thanks to his Elf-senses. Physically, Elves really were annoyingly perfect._

_There was a massive weeping willow beside the brook, some forty yards ahead, and Lorna made for it, because she didn't know what else to do. They had to have been brought here for a reason, and they weren't going to find it by standing around. The softness of the grass really was unnervingly real, the scent of the lilac bush they passed almost overwhelming._

_"I am not certain this is a good idea," Thranduil said, sounding more uneasy than she had ever heard him._

_"Well, I don't have a better one. Don't you feel drawn to that tree?"_

_"Yes," he said grimly, "which is why I think approaching it is unwise. Enticing things are all too often a trap."_

_"It's a trap," Lorna said, in her best attempt at an Admiral Ackbar voice._

_He sighed, and when she looked at him, he had the rather pained expression that always made her feel so accomplished. "Lorna, if you start quoting _Star Wars,_ I will throw you into that brook and leave you there."_

_"You're no fun when you're not drunk," she groused. The closer they drew to the tree, the harder the butterflies flapped in her stomach. She wasn't sure if she was nervous, excited, or both – and she really wasn't sure why she should be either._

_"I still think this is a terrible idea," he said, ignoring her jibe._

_"You need not be afraid. I will not hurt you."_

_Lorna froze, eyes widening, her heart suddenly hammering like a Def Leppard drum solo. "Holy shit," she breathed._

_Lady Galadriel was so old and so powerful that Lorna had a hard time properly comprehending it. The woman who suddenly stood before her was so much more that her brain almost shut down._

_For one thing, she had to be a good eight feet tall, wearing some kind of robe that shifted through dozens of shades of green when she moved even minutely. Her skin was the color of damp earth, her long black hair wispy as lichen, her eyes so dark that they looked black in the dimness, and she radiated a strength as deep and ancient as the bones of the world._

_Lorna was drawn irresistibly toward her, but Thranduil's hand clamped on her left shoulder with a grip that reminded her how strong Elves really were. Tempted though she was to shrug it off, she knew she'd have to fight him over it, and she couldn't take her eyes from this strange, lovely, terrifying woman. "Who are you?" she asked, amazed she could find her voice at all._

_"Most call me the Lady." Her voice was probably the loveliest thing Lorna had ever heard – it was like liquid silver, her accent indefinable. "You were meant to be my avatar, before his world took you."_

_Thranduil jerked Lorna backward before she could so much as speak. "You cannot have her back," he said. "If she returns to you, I die, and that Von Ratched creature will not have the force of opposition he needs, if he is to be defeated."_

_Lorna turned to look at him, totally horrified. "_Dude_," she hissed, "don't talk to her like that." Trust Thranduil to be a twat to someone who might well be a god._

_Fortunately, the woman seemed amused rather than angry. "You, Thranduil son of Oropher, have thrown a very large boulder in the stream of events. While you are not the only thing that has radically altered what ought to unfold, you have certainly been the greatest force thus far._

_Naturally, he looked rather smug, and Lorna kicked him. _Only Thranduil,_ she thought. _Only Thranduil would be proud he'd screwed up the future.

_"Can he un-screw it up?" she asked._

_The Lady tilted her head to one side. "He could," she said, "but he will not. There may yet be dire consequences for your selfishness, son of Oropher. I hope you are ready to pay them."_

_Judging by his suddenly guarded expression, he knew what she meant, which was a hell of a lot more than Lorna did._

_"Am I going to see more'v what might've been?" she asked. "I mean, that's why I've brought this berk with me in the first place."_

_"Not yet," the Lady said. "There were consequences for some of the things you have already seen that you cannot know right now."_

_Because that didn't sound ominous or anything. "Okay," she said, more than a little uncertainly._

_The Lady's dark eyes flicked to Thranduil. "And you, Thranduil, have begun something you did not intend," she said, "and as I know you will not cease as you ought, I hope you are ready to see it through." Her tone made it plain that she did not think that likely._

_"Does somebody want to tell me what the fuck_ that _means?" Lorna asked._

_"No," Thranduil said tightly._

_"Didn't think so, but I had to try," she sighed._

_"Wake, Lorna," the Lady said. "I cannot show you what might have been, but some things I must show him." _

_Lorna cast a look at Thranduil, who looked about as happy as a shaved cat. "Don't let your brain break any more," she ordered. "I doubt I can fix it if you do."_

* * *

So, writing what Lorna saw in Ratiri's head was a bit difficult. The M books can be pretty dark and violent in places, but I'm trying to keep this fic lighter than that, hence why what she saw wound up cut off before it could enter total horrifying territory.

Title means "In Dreams" in Irish.


	29. Cleachtadh

In which Elladan attempts to teach Katje to fight, Thranduil gets bad news (and is a pretty pretty princess), and yet again displays the fact that his interpersonal skills are very lacking.

* * *

When Katje woke, she found both Ratiri and Geezer sleeping. They both looked healthy and unharmed, so she listened to her insistent bladder and went to find the bathroom.

Unlike Dale, there actually were bathrooms here, not stinky outhouses. The 'toilet' was a stone bench with a hole, but it actually flushed by means of a very small aqueduct and pull chain. Toilet paper wasn't a thing, but there were stacks of fabric squares and a bowl of water to wash with – the soiled cloths went into a small basket on the floor. The stone was frigid on her ass, but you couldn't have everything.

She washed her hands in a basin in the infirmary, then went to find food. As much as she distrusted telepaths, whatever that little Lorna woman had done seemed to have helped Ratiri, so she felt safe leaving him for a while. He was in good hands with Geezer and the healers.

Could they make a life here? The caverns were beautiful, but as she had in Erebor, she missed the sight of the sky. Geezer wanted to go back to Erebor, but the Elves were more Katje's style, even if they were annoyingly celibate. The Dwarves had been very kind, but they were too loud and boisterous even for her, and that was _really_ saying something.

The kitchens weren't too far from the healing wards, but it was far enough that she was starving by the time she got there. A dozen cooks were hard at work, but she managed to cadge some of that sweet water and a bowl of something like oatmeal, topped with cream and brown sugar.

She ate slowly, watching the Elves at work. They were so graceful that they somehow made such a mundane chore as cooking look like a dance, wasting not a single movement. The large room was warm and bright with candlelight, but what she really wanted was a window. Much as she would rather not deal with the cold outside again, she'd endure it for a look at a blue sky – or even a cloudy one.

What would this world look like in spring and summer? Probably damn beautiful. She'd always kept in good shape – it went with the profession – and part of how she did so was by taking long hikes through Holland's various national forests. This place, untouched by modern pollution, was sure to be amazing.

One of the staggeringly attractive dark-haired twins (she wasn't sure which one) appeared at her side out of apparently nowhere. "Can you fight?" he asked, his English as heavily accented as her own.

"Fight?" she repeated.

"Sword," he said, making a swinging motion with his hands.

"No. No swords in my world."

He eyed her speculatively. Katje was well used to being physically assessed by men (and women), but not in this way. "Eat," he said. "Then follow. Arandur will help."

She had a terribly uneasy feeling that she was about to make a very large fool of herself.

* * *

Elladan had higher hopes for Katje than he'd had for Lorna. Katje wouldn't be as strong or as graceful as an Elf, but she was built like one, and could be trained. Elrohir had mentioned that her stamina was good for an Edain, and that she did not complain when it started to flag. They could make something of her, if she was willing to learn.

The indoor training halls were quite impressive – very large, with training dummies, a long row of archery targets, and several woven mats for grappling practice. They were also, at the moment, very crowded; the guards were bored, and there was little else for them to do.

Katje hesitated when she saw them all, but he gave her a gentle nudge forward. Arandur waited by a rack of practice swords, looking bout as awkward as Katje – Elladan intended to make certain he practiced, too, because no Elf should be as under-trained as Arandur, not even a scholar. Erestor, who ran his father's libraries, could fight as well as any of the rest of the valley's inhabitants.

"Tell her we will not be doing anything today that could hurt her," he said. "For now I want you to show her the basics of using a sword, and I will correct you both when you get it wrong."

Arandur looked like he dearly wanted to say something unpleasant, but kept silent because of who he would say it to. He translated that to Katje, who gave Elladan a scowl. Here was one who likely cared nothing for anyone's title.

She picked up a practice sword, testing is weight, and it was very obvious she had never held one before. Arandur showed her how to properly hold it, well enough that Elladan felt no need to say anything.

Her first attempt at swinging it, however, made him sigh inwardly. Clearly she was afraid of hurting Arandur, and was holding back a good amount of her strength. Edain of this world knew how strong and durable Elves were, but Katje had not been around them long enough to really understand

"Harder," he said – one of the few words he could speak in English. "Hit harder."

She looked rather alarmed by that prospect, and he thought he knew what the problem was – Arandur looked delicate even for an Elf. She was probably afraid she'd break him in half if she tried.

Elladan held out a hand. "Arandur, give that to me," he said, and knew he wasn't imagining the relief in Arandur's eyes as he handed over the sword. Facing Katje, Elladan said, "Hit me."

Her trepidation vanished, and she swung the sword in an arc that was graceful but totally inaccurate. He read her strength in the force of the blow; she was not as strong as Lorna, but she was no weakling. Footwork couldn't be addressed while she was wearing a dress, unfortunately.

"Arandur, go correct her," he said. "Then we need to find her some proper training clothes."

* * *

_Thranduil wished he could have woken when Lorna did. He wished he need not have seen any of what the Lady had showed him. _

_"It must happen, Thranduil," she said, and it was only the grief in her voice that kept him from utterly loathing her. Standing this close to her, he saw that her dark eyes contained a night sky, the pinpoint lights of millions of stars spilling across them. "They must happen."_

_"No," he said harshly. "This is not your world, and that future belongs to no one now. What would you have me do – allow her to march to Gondor, knowing what will await?"_

_"If you do not, many will suffer for it," she said gently._

_"Many are not my concern. That is not a fate I would wish on anyone, let alone Lorna. Middle-Earth is not your purview, Lady, and neither is the fate of its occupants."_

_"You will have to address it sooner or later," she said._

_"No," he said icily, "I will not. Let me wake, Lady. You have shown me enough."_

Wake he did, both infuriated and vaguely ill.

"The fact that you people sleep with your eyes open will never not be creepy." Lorna was sitting beside the fire, fiddling with a ball of string she'd found Eru knew where. She must have taken a bath, because her hair was wet.

Thranduil sat up. "Lorna, you cannot ask me why I say this," he said gravely. "When we heal the infection in my mind, we must ensure I cannot be re-infected. When you go to Gondor, I am going with you."

He was rather surprised that she didn't immediately ask why. Instead she looked at him searchingly. "The Lady showed you something nasty, didn't she?"

"Yes," he sighed. "And I will not allow it to come to pass. If you trust me on nothing else, trust me on this." That would, he knew, be a difficult thing for her to do. Eru knew he'd given her little reason to trust anything he might promise.

"I don't even know how to fix you at all," she said. "Let alone…_immunize_ you."

"We have Lady Galadriel to aid us with that." He ran a hand through his hair, and paused when his fingers brushed over what felt like ribbon. "Lorna," he sighed, "do I want to know what you have done with my hair?"

She laughed so hard she almost fell over. "Go look in the mirror," she said. "I've turned you into a pretty pretty princess."

With another sigh, he stood and went to the mirror, which hung over a dressing table of pale wood. Lorna had woven several braids into his hair, a bow of pink ribbon at the top and bottom of each. "_Where_ did you find this ribbon?"

"Menelwen got it for me," she said, climbing to her feet. "It doesn't quite match your dress, but it went better with your hair."

"Every time I think you cannot grow more obnoxious, you somehow manage to surpass yourself," he said dryly, unfastening the bows. He hoped Galadriel had not dropped by and seen him like this. "Just for that, I won't be giving you any trousers."

"Oh, I'll find some somewhere. Just be glad digital cameras aren't a thing here."

Oh, he was. He really, really was.

"I'm gonna go check on the other humans. Have fun with your hair, Princess." She hurried out the door before he could throw something at her.

* * *

Lorna felt quite pleased with herself as she headed to the healing wards. She'd wanted to do something to his hair for _months_, but had never thought she'd have the opportunity. It was only a pity she didn't have a curling iron.

There were quite a few people out and about, and she gave them all a wave or a nod as she traversed paths and platforms, descending long flights of stairs. She was an inordinately good mood, in spite of Thranduil's cryptic words, and she wasn't going to destroy it by thinking on them too closely. That could come later, when she had Galadriel to help pry it out of him. For now, she wound her way to the door of the healing wards, and hesitated.

In another universe, another future, she'd made friends with these three at the same time. Here, now, they were their own group, and she was going to be an outsider in one sense or another no matter what. It felt a bit weird, being a kind of alien among her own people, but she wouldn't fix that by lurking out here. In she went, bracing herself, though she did not know why.

As expected, it was empty, so she snooped around until she found Ratiri's room. He was alone, and still asleep, and she paused to watch him, thoughtful. This man would have played a vast role in her life, in another world, and here she barely knew him. What had he been like, in that alternate universe? What had _she_ been like? Galadriel was right – touching Thranduil's mind had changed her, and she doubted it had only made her more obnoxious.

How would she have really fared, in the nightmare that was the Institute, with that monster Von Ratched? She'd like to think she would have handled it well, but she doubted it. She couldn't fault Ratiri's reaction to finding out she was a telepath, though it really had hurt.

_Sleep well, mate_, she thought, and left as quietly as she could. Where would Katje and Geezer be? Well, Geezer liked his weapons – he'd probably be wherever they were. Unfortunately, Arandur had never got the chance to show her where that was, so she would have to wander.

However, first she wanted some goddamn trousers. She'd taken the only clothes she had with her to Dale, and she was afraid Galasríniel probably really had burnt them, but she might be able to swipe some basics from Tauriel, who at least wasn't a full foot taller than her. Screw this 'dress' nonsense. Trust Thranduil to know how much they annoyed her.

She headed down to the guard room, figuring there would probably be at least one person there, if not several. Before she and Arandur had left, the guards had been pretty bored, and while there had been plenty of excitement since, it was not the type that they liked.

The room, she found, was very warm, but it contained only Faelon, who was oiling his boots.

"Where is everyone?" she asked.

"Training hall," he said with a slight smile. "I'm off that way myself, once these boots are done. Elladan is teaching two of our Edain to fight."

Lorna groaned. "Those poor bastards," she said. "We'd better rescue them, but first, has Tauriel got any kit I could steal? This dress is driving me mad."

"Did she give that to you?" he asked, setting down the boot. "It was hers, when she was a child."

"It was – oh, that sneaky son'v a bitch." Thranduil was a dead man. Dead Elf. Whatever, he was a dead something.

"You didn't know that?"

"No," she said dryly, "I did not. Someone is going to hear about it, however. Well, if this fits, has she got any practical things my size?"

"You'd have to ask her. She's with everyone else."

"I hope she's not letting Elladan kill Geezer and Katje. C'mon, leave the boot and live a little."

Leave it he did, first carefully storing the tin of oil. It didn't reek, as she would have expected leather oil to do; it had a pleasant, woodsy smell that would make a damn good scented candle. Did scented candles exist in Middle-Earth? If not, she was definitely inventing them.

"What've you lot been doing since we all got back?" she asked, following him out into the corridor.

"Worrying, mostly," he said. "Wondering if the King will ever be cured of his madness, and if more of your kind will appear."

Lorna debated telling him about Von Ratched, and decided against it. "Well, Lady Galadriel's here, and I doubt there's much'v anything she can't do. Thranduil'll get all his marbles back in the box by springtime, and then we can all do…whatever."

"Are you still thinking to make for Imladris, when the snow melts?" he asked, looking down at her with an expression that was faintly hopeful – she was pretty sure he wanted to go, but not alone.

"I was thinking south," she said, "and I'll explain why later, when I've got more information. I might need your help, if you're willing to give it." Because there was no way in any hell there ever was that she'd take Thranduil to Gondor. He was King of the damn Wood-Elves – he couldn't just go haring off, even to meet a threat like Von Ratched. Not to mention the fact that he would be horrendous to travel with for such a long journey. Three days on that damn elk were bad enough.

"Why would I not be?" Faelon asked.

"Just trust me," she said. "You _really_ might not be. I can't say more until I know more."

He didn't look as if he liked that explanation, but she knew he'd let it be. Faelon wasn't the sort to push.

When they reached the training hall, they found it so crowded that she suspected most of the Guard was there. A few were practicing, but the bulk of them were watching Elladan and Katje, who appeared to be locked in a staring contest. _Katje_ had been given practical clothes, at least, probably borrowed from a female guard – the standard tunic and leggings that she somehow managed to wear like a model. Lorna didn't swing that way, but she thought Katje was gorgeous, no matter that she was obviously frustrated at the moment. Her golden hair was tangled, her cheeks flushed with anger, exertion, or both – if not for her rather venomous expression, she could have passed for an Elf.

Elladan came at her with his practice sword, and she dodged with impressive grace. Unfortunately, that was all she managed – when she attempted to strike him, he somehow twisted the sword right out of her hand. Her expression was so shocked that Lorna had to bite back a laugh. He'd done the same thing to her, and even watching from the outside, she still had no idea how he did it. Witchcraft, probably.

"Don't go showing off with her, Elladan," she called in Sindarin. "It's not fair to the poor woman. I told you we didn't use swords in my world."

"That," he said, "is very evident. She has potential, however, if she can find it."

"Have you actually _told_ her that?" Lorna asked. "All you're doing is frustrating her."

"I do not know the words. You tell her."

Lorna looked at Katje, who seemed grateful for the interruption. "He says you've got potential. I've told him we don't use swords on Earth, so if he's surprised we're rubbish at it, that's his own fault."

Katje laughed, sounding a trifle out of breath. "These people, they are too good at everything."

"Tell me about it. It can give you a right inferiority complex if you let it. I told him to stop showing off with you, but God knows if he actually will." Judging by his expression, he had no intention at all of behaving himself, and Lorna wished she had her bag of cheese. "If you surprise him, you'll throw him off. Trust me. Biting usually works."

Both Katje's eyebrows rose, and her lips curved into an absolutely wicked grin. She turned it on Elladan, who suddenly looked wary.

"What did you say to her?" he asked.

"I told her to surprise you," Lorna replied, and laughed at his expression.

She had to hand it to Katje – the woman could do a slinky Marilyn Monroe walk like nobody else she'd ever seen. The practice sword hung lazily in her hand, but Lorna could see that her fingers were still tight around the hilt. Elladan obviously had no idea what the hell she was doing, so he bore down on her with his sword. Rather than try to parry, she ducked, dodged, and straightened up in time to grab his collar with her free hand, and give him a very delicate peck on the lips.

He froze, and she whacked him in the back of the knee with her sword. It didn't make him fall, but it _did_ make him stagger, and his expression made Lorna laugh so hard she had to lean on Faelon so she wouldn't fall down.

"Do you think it worked?" Katje asked, her evil grin traded for an equally evil smirk.

Lorna was laughing too hard to speak, but she nodded. "Aye," she gasped, when she finally could. "Bet an orc's never tried _that_ before, have they Elladan?" she asked in Sindarin.

"No," he said, still looking quite disturbed. "I would not recommend she try it against orcs, either. Though I doubt she would be tempted to." His eyes narrowed, and dread filled Lorna's stomach. "Why don't you show everyone your shoulder trick?"

Oh, hell. "Christ, Elladan, that'll be three times in as many weeks," she protested.

"The healers can take care of it," he said. "Unless you're afraid?"

"Oh, sod you," she growled. "All right, class, this is how you get away from an irritating attacker without needing the opportunity to bite them first." God, she wished she had trousers. Not that she cared if anyone saw her knickers, but kicking with a long skirt was pretty much impossible.

She marched out to the center of the ring, while Katje drifted to the side, clearly wondering what was going on. Lorna tried to roll back her sleeves, which were a little too long in spite of this being a child's dress (_thank you_, Thranduil), and of course failed. Fuck it. "Come get me, if you can."

It was an empty taunt; she couldn't run for shite in a dress, but she couldn't make it _entirely_ easy on him. She dodged a few times, until he grabbed her and spun her, pinning her back against his chest as he had in Dale.

"This won't sound pretty, but I'm sure you've all heard it before," she said, and wrenched her shoulder out of place with a hideous crack that made more than a few of them wince. Knowing that Elladan would expect her to twist out of his trip as she'd tone before, she instead planted her feet on his thighs and shoved herself upward, kicking him in the gut for good measure. The dislocated joint let her essentially do a side somersault right out of his arms, though she didn't actually manage to land on her feet. Of bloody course she'd have to land on her knee, which also made a crack, though not nearly so awful.

"That was disgusting. _Why_ did you do it?"

It was almost funny, how uniformly the guard stood to attention. "Hi, Thranduil," Lorna said, struggling to her feet. "Elladan asked me to give a demonstration. Speaking of which, Elladan, you're the size of a tree – turn around and hold still."

He did, and she braced her arm hard against his back and shoved her shoulder back into the socket, swearing in Irish the entire time. More than once Elf cringed, and Katje shuddered at the noise it made. It _did_ sound pretty gross, and of course it hurt like a bastard.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "And this _works_?"

"On people who aren't expecting it. You should've seen Elladan when I first did it."

"I thought she had gone mad," the Elf in question said dryly. "Granted, she _was_ very angry. Anyone who wishes to practice that, pair up."

Not many seemed anxious to try it, but a few drifted to the rest of the practice mats – including Tauriel and Menelwen. A dislocation probably hurt a lot less if you were an Elf, because Elves were lucky arseholes who didn't seem to have any physical problems whatsoever.

"Could you do that again?" Thranduil asked, and oh great, the Smirk was making an appearance. There was no way this was ending well.

"If I had to," she said, rubbing her shoulder. "Before you ask, no, I won't try it against you. I know a losing battle when I see one."

Up went the other eyebrow. Dammit, she should have got rid of those things while he was asleep. "You would concede without a fight, Dilthen Ettelëa?" he asked. "That is unlike you."

Lorna rolled her eyes. "I'm stubborn, Drag Queen Barbie, but I'm not stupid. A.) you'd break my arm, and B.) I don't need to look like a fool in front of everyone and their dog. The trick only works if it's a surprise, and you've seen it." Elladan himself had told her she wouldn't stand a chance against Thranduil, and he probably knew what he was on about. Shit, she'd only halfway held her own against Elladan because he'd underestimated her – Thranduil had to have enough of her memories to know how she fought.

Damn it all, he was giving her the 'I want to eat your brain' look. Running away wasn't usually her style, but she was out like trout – or would have been, if she wasn't hampered by the frigging dress. It made her shamefully easy to grab, and then she was stuck, feet dangling a good foot off the ground, shoulder burning like a mad bastard. Son of a bitch.

One of the things that had terrified her about Thranduil for quite a while was how strong he was. She was certain Elladan had to be just as strong, but he hadn't really used it against her. She knew already she wasn't breaking Thranduil's grip, so she'd have to either surprise him, or make him _want_ to drop her.

She let herself become utterly dead weight, turned her eyes to the heavens, and sang. "I'm a Barbie girl, in a Barbie world. Life is plastic, it's fantastic," she managed, before laughter overtook her and she slammed the back of her head against his nose. She was dimly aware of Katje's choked snort, which only made her laugh harder. "Come on Barbie, let's go party." A kick to his knee. "Ah, ah, ah, yeah." Another kick, this one just as useless. Damn bare feet. "Come on Barbie, let's go party."

Not only was it not working, his grip tightened until she found it hard to breathe. Jesus, was he actually trying to hurt her? Was this some kind of revenge for the hair ribbons?

Logically, she knew she shouldn't panic. He needed her alive if she was to fix his brain, but logic had no place in dread. Von Ratched had been stupidly strong, too, even more so than her, and memory of that incident sent terror spiking through her, her heart rate skyrocketing. Thranduil was touching her hands, so she wrenched her shoulder out again, gritting her teeth against the pain, and throwing both hurt and fear at his mind as hard as she could.

She felt him flinch, but he _still_ didn't drop her, and oh Christ, she was going to die like this –

One of the oil-lamps on the wall exploded, raining shards of glass, the burning oil splashing onto the floor. Lorna was vaguely aware of several cries of alarm, but another went a moment later, and a third after that. Now she was_ really_ bloody scared, so much so that she barely recognized the shriek of twisting metal and the scramble of dozens of feet.

Half the lights blew next, plunging the room into shadow, and why would he not let go? Once she got out of this, she really _would_ murder him in the face. With extreme prejudice.

Not until the room was nearly dark did he release her, letting her back down onto her feet surprisingly carefully. Though her right shoulder was still dislocated, she rounded on him and punched him with her left hand. Surprisingly, he actually let her do it.

"What the _fuck_ was that about?" she demanded in English. Her heart was still thundering, adrenaline jagging through her system like lightning.

"Telekinesis," he said, with a smile that was downright disturbing. "Von Ratched as hit, and you had it in your dream. Anger obviously was not enough to draw it out, but have you ever been really, truly terrified here? So afraid you thought you might die?"

While it was possible he had a point, he was still an arsehole. In the dim light he looked every bit as creepy as she'd thought him upon first meeting him, his pale eyes almost glowing. "Even if you're right, I didn't need a bloody audience. Piss off, Thranduil. I am so beyond done with you right now." She stalked off, her good mood utterly ruined. She needed a drink, and then she needed to hit something.

* * *

You know, Thranduil, you do sort of need to retain Lorna's goodwill, if she's actually going to want to help you. I know you mean well, but you are just not good with people. Fear being the initial catalyst for Lorna's telekinesis comes from her canon – she just wound up horribly afraid a lot earlier in her book than she did in this story.

The idea for Lorna singing "Barbie Girl" at him comes from Shingingheart of Thunderclan.

Title means "Practice" in Irish.


	30. Diabhal go Léir

Damn, we're up to thirty chapters. Time to shake things up a bit.

In which Geezer has a seizure, Lorna gets bad news, the Elves (and eventually all of Middle-Earth) get even _worse_ news, and Lorna desperately wishes Middle-Earth had Bedazzlers.

* * *

Katje had instinctively ducked when things started exploding, but Geezer wondered how he'd been stupid enough to miss it until now. He didn't feel _too_ dumb, though, because apparently Lorna had missed it, too. Thranduil had been jawing at her in English, so Geezer actually understood what he said, and it did make sense. Too bad his method of testing it was so goddamn stupid. Now everybody would be too afraid to go near her.

_Unless that's what he wants._ Geezer still hadn't figured out the deal with those two, and wasn't sure he wanted to. It probably wasn't what it looked like, given that Elves were Elves, but Thranduil _was_ a little insane. Lorna didn't scare Geezer – he'd go hang around her for a bit, just to make sure she was okay.

Not yet, though. She needed time to cool down, and he and Katje might as well go check on Ratiri, since the training hall was now such a mess. He was a little pissed that he hadn't had a chance to practice with a sword himself, but he could do that later. "C'mon, lass," he said. "Let's leave them to it, and go see if Ratiri's awake yet."

She nodded, rallying herself. "I did not know she could do that," she said, following him across the glass-strewn floor.

"I don't think _she_ knew she could do that. Once – oh, hell." The edges of his vision were blurring, the colors of the room smearing together. "Yep," he said, voice strained. "Infirmary. Now."

Katje swore again in Dutch, and hauled him off by his right arm. Shit, he'd just had a seizure less than two weeks ago – this was way too soon for another one.

He must have looked as awful as he felt, for two Elves appeared at his sides. Fortunately, one of them was Arandur, who had seen this whole show before. When Geezer grunted "Doctor", Arandur knew exactly what he meant, and guided him expertly through the crowd.

The light-tracers crept across his eyes with alarming speed, making him stagger again, and he swore, creatively and at great length.

"Always, always you have worst timing," Katje grumbled, hustling him faster. "I thought these did not happen often."

"They don't," he said, "on Earth. This ain't Earth."

"I had not noticed," she said dryly. "And stop saying 'ain't'. Even I know that is not word."

"It's in the dictionary," he said, or started to – his left leg gave out beneath him, turning the word 'dictionary' into unintelligible garble.

Someone said 'fuck' – he was pretty sure it was Arandur, actually – and then the fog of prophecy overtook him, shutting out the real world.

_Ships. Tall ships, like those of the nineteenth century, but far bigger, and flying through the air. The image was brief, but tantalizing – certainly much more so than what replaced it._

_It was Von Ratched, still sitting in the shadows of Minas Tirith, and he'd been collecting people – many of the blond, blue-eyed people of Rohan, as well as some with darker complexions that had to have come from the south. The really scary thing, though, was that he'd somehow got his hands on Elves, one of whom looked like Faelon. How was this?_ When _was this? And what the hell was he doing with them all, except for sitting around with his thumb up his ass?_

_The image shifted, dissolving into smoke and re-forming into a picture of two small children who might have been clones of Lorna, save for their pale, reflective telepath eyes. The sight of them filled hi with vague but visceral horror, but he wasn't confronted with them for long – a moment later there was a golden wood, the leaves glowing in the sunlight. An army marched from beneath it, Elves in silvery armor – thousands of them, marching south._

_The children again, older now, still looking incredibly like their mother, albeit far taller. Now that they were older, it was obvious that they were a boy and a girl, and he could feel the power in them – each was far and away more powerful than Von Ratched, but that he was their father didn't matter – it was that they were Lorna's. But what were they meant to _do_?_

_Doors, doors, dead people with black holes where their eyes should be. When was all this? When? He didn't know. Couldn't know._

_The children were what was important, though he had no idea when they'd be born – he did, however, have an unfortunate suspicion as to how. He could tell Lorna not to go to Gondor, but the future wasn't easy to change. Those kids would happen, one way or another._

_There was another flash of vision, brief but wonderful: Katje, armored in gold and silver, fierce and beautiful. She would benefit from being here, it seemed, even if nobody else did. Never could Geezer see his own fate, and so far he saw nothing of Ratiri's, but Katje looked like a Valkyrie._

The trance shattered before he could look more thoroughly, and he found himself on a soft bed, soaked in sweat, Galasríniel and one of her helpers hovering over him. Katje lurked in the corner, looking deeply disturbed – oh. That was why.

Thranduil stood in the doorway, watching him patiently. Geezer had no idea how in fucking hell Lorna could deal with as she did: the man – Elf – was terrifying, so tall and so pale that he was unearthly, and those hellish eyes. Von Ratched's might reflect light like an animal, but Thranduil's belonged on a zombie.

He said something to the healers, who fussed a little, checking Geezer over and pouring him a cup of something that smelled like some sweet spice he couldn't name.

"Drink it," Thranduil said in English. "It is _miruvor_. It will ease you, and restore your strength."

If Thranduil wanted to poison him, he probably wouldn't make the healers do it, so Geezer took the cup and drank.

The effect was almost instantaneous, and damn wonderful. All his aches vanished, the pounding in his head silenced. He could breathe easily, and the tension drained from his limbs like water through a sieve. "Thanks," he said, passing the cup back to Galasríniel. "That's good shit."

Thranduil smirked a little, and said something that sent the healers hurrying out of the room. "Katje, I will not harm him," he said. "Ratiri is not yet awake. Go and sit with him."

She cast Geezer a glance, her blue eyes wide and worried, but she wouldn't have dared disobey _that_ command. She left, though obviously reluctantly, and Thranduil shut the door behind her.

"Tell me what you saw," he said, drawing an armchair away from the fire.

Geezer sighed, struggling to sit up properly. "Lotta shit that didn't make sense yet," he said. "Von Ratched someday gets a lot more humans and some Elves, but I don't know when or how. An army of Elves marches out from I think Lothlórien, dead people with no eyes, and a lotta doors – not _door_ doors, but doorways, going I don't know where. There was a flying ship – not like an airplane, like a _ship_, with sails and everything." He paused. "Look, I know you and Lorna aren't on great terms right now, but you _can't_ let her go to Gondor. Bad things'll happen if you do."

"I know," Thranduil said grimly, to Geezer's immense surprise. "I was warned of that by a being who calls herself the Lady." His non-expression hardened. "She insisted I needed to allow it to happen, because the children are necessary. That, I will not do."

Well, that was a damn big relief. "Pretty sure the kids really do need to happen," Geezer said. "They just don't have to be _his_. They look so much like her that I doubt the father matters much. It's just too damn bad Ratiri had to go and shove his foot down his throat, because I think Lorna liked him."

"She did," Thranduil said dryly. "She called him sad, broken, and pretty. That relationship will have to repair itself on its own, however. I do not think Lorna would take kindly to being told she needed to make it happen."

_That_ Geezer could well believe. He gave Thranduil a shrewd look. "You won't be annoyed if she does?

"Why would I be annoyed?" he asked. "Lorna is entertaining, but she is also vastly irritating. Should she properly court this man, she might be less obnoxious."

"Well, they'd better do it soon. Fix whatever they've got, I mean," he clarified, realizing how wrong that sounded. "The things I see don't have a timeline, but I'm pretty sure the twins have to get cooked up fairly soon, or the universe'll find its own way. Which nobody wants."

"No," Thranduil said, "we do not. I will see to a few things, and when Ratiri wakes, I will be certain she would rather visit him than anything else."

Geezer didn't want to know how _that_ would go.

* * *

Thranduil's rooms were a lot simpler than Lorna would have expected from someone who dressed so flamboyantly. The shelves, which took up one entire wall, were crammed with books rather than knick-knacks, and even the mantle over the fireplace held only a few souvenirs of who knew what – though it was crowned with a pair of antlers only slightly smaller than the ones over the throne.

His fabulous wardrobe, however, was going to be a lot more fabulous by the time she was through with it. She'd liberated a whole basket of lace and ribbons from a cupboard in the sewing room, and had spent the last hour going to town on Thranduil's dresses. If only Middle-Earth had Bedazzlers.

She was especially fond of what she'd done to one silvery robe: a good seven feet of pale pink ribbon had been sewn all over it, in the form of bows and little rosette things her gran had taught her to make. She'd sewn them on stiffly enough that they were never coming off. If only she could see his expression, the next time he pulled it out of his wardrobe. The mere thought made her cackle.

"_What_ are you doing?"

Lorna sighed. Of course she couldn't just get this done and not get caught. Of course not. "I'm improving your wardrobe," she said, not looking up from her work. "A pretty pretty princess needs the right clothes."

Thranduil groaned. "I supposed I've earned this," he sighed. "Lorna, I need to speak with you."

"Go ahead," she said, finishing a knot and biting off the thread. "I'm not stopping you."

"This is serious, Lorna. Your Lady showed me something I was not going to tell you about, but Geezer told me much the same thing. He is cursed with visions of the future, and yours is a future I would prevent."

_Now_ she looked up. He certainly did sound serious as the grave, and his expression was as close to worried as she had ever seen it. "I'm listening," she said, setting down her current dress.

He actually came and sat on the floor beside her. "You told me that in your dreams of what might have been, you thought Von Ratched had violated you," he said steadily, and as close to gently as he was probably capable of.

"Yeah," she said slowly, already knowing that she wouldn't like where this was doing, no matter where it went.

"According to your Lady, he did, and it produced two children whom Ratiri raised as his own. Geezer's vision showed him the same would happen here, should you go to Gondor. The universe, it would seem, wants those children to be born."

Lorna's blood turned to ice, but moments later, boiling rage overtook her, actually washing her vision red as her blood pressure skyrocketed. "Bullshit," she snarled. "The future's not set. I won't _let_ it be set." Like hell would she ever go through that, no matter what the reason.

"Nor will I," Thranduil said gravely. "Geezer thinks, and I agree with him, that the important thing about those children as that they are _yours_. The father is of lesser consequence."

Well, all right, that was slightly less appalling, but it still left her with a very big problem: finding a father. While she wasn't angry with Ratiri anymore, he wasn't anything close to a boyfriend, and she could never use him that way. She didn't think she could use _anyone_ that way. Especially since in vitro didn't work here.

And Lorna just really wasn't into that sort of thing. She had been with Liam, but she'd loved Liam. One-night stands and the like had never interested her. "I can't do it," she said. "Sure Christ, I can't just go up to Arandur or Faelon or someone and ask that'v them. Spring's still months off – with Galadriel to help, we've got to be able to find a way around it."

She'd wanted children for years, but not like _this_. This would be a gross parody of motherhood from the very start, and she absolutely would not do it. If she ever properly wound up with someone, _then_ those kids could happen, but not before. It wasn't a morality thing – it was just who and what she was. She wouldn't disrespect herself, her partner, or her hypothetical children. She'd decided ages ago that if she ever had a family, she'd do it right – not like her own childhood. Having children just because she was meant to, with somebody she didn't actually love, was not what she considered to be doing it right. And if the universe didn't like that, it could get stuffed_._

"We will try," he said. "If we can find no alternative, you cannot go to Gondor. Geezer might claim the future cannot be changed, but _no one_ gets in here without my leave. Should we find a way to immunize me, as you put it, I will be able to face Von Ratched on my own."

The thought of having to throw the fight, so to speak, was a bit galling, but hey, you had to do what you had to do. It was a hell of a lot better than the alternative.

* * *

That had gone better than Thranduil had hoped, though he supposed she should not be surprised. Lorna was terribly stubborn, which occasionally actually worked in her favor.

It helped that he poured her ht good wine, even as he cast a lightly despairing glance at the pile of ruined clothing on the floor. He should have expected something like this – harmless, mildly destructive, and extremely annoying.

He herded her to the chairs beside the fire, bringing his own wine. Were he in her place, he could not do what was asked of her, either. Perhaps, in time, she would marry Ratiri, or some other who came here, and would feel very differently about the idea – but for now, he could not at all blame her refusal to even consider it.

From what both the Lady and Geezer said, it did not sound as though the need for the children could be circumvented, but he was determined that the manner in which they were conceived would be. If he, Galadriel, and Lorna could find no way around the need for them, Lorna couldn't go to Gondor, so she _wouldn't_ go to Gondor. It would complicated things, but if they could, as she said, immunize him, those complications would not be insurmountable.

"This," Lorna said, "is bullshit. I can't imagine why I would've kept any kids produced by _that_."

"You had Ratiri. The two of you raised them as if they were his own."

She sighed, downing the last of her wine. "Doubt that would happen here. He's so fragile I'm afraid'v shattering him."

"That may change, with time. Come, Dilthen Ettelëa, before you grow too drunk to stand. I must take Geezer to speak with Galadriel, and I believe he would feel better with you there to throw cheese at me, if necessary." He fixed her with a stern look, and added, "And stay out of my wardrobe, or I will make certain you never find a pair of trousers."

"Whatever, Drag Queen Barbie," she said, hopping down from her chair. "Let's hear what Geezer has to say. I need to get my cheese bag."

* * *

Had Geezer not felt so much better, he wouldn't have wanted to do this. Part of him still didn't want to, but the rest of him was glad to have a chance to see Galadriel again. She'd always fascinated him, even back when he'd first read the books – if he remembered right, she was one of the most powerful Elves in Middle-Earth.

Arandur led him to some council chamber or other, past waterfalls and mossy stones, small creeks gurgling beneath the walkways. He never would have thought a cave could feel so open and alive, but it was easy to forget he was underground.

"You must tell the Lady Galadriel what you know," Arandur said. "The Prince will be there, and the King, but he does not wish to have whatever you will say known to many."

Well, that was a relief. Geezer hated public speaking.

The room Arandur ushered him into was surprisingly small, and almost cozy. There was a desk that looked like a round take from some massive felled tree, with the pelt of an immense animal for a rug. Chairs were ringed around the desk, which was barely big enough – they were probably a temporary addition. Lady Galadriel was seated in one, with another occupied by a blond Elf who was probably the Prince – Legolas, that was his name. He looked deeply suspicious, and Geezer couldn't blame him.

Thranduil swept in a moment later, trailed by Lorna and her bag of cheese. She looked a little tipsy, which suggested he'd given her the bad news.

"Sit," he said, and Geezer sat, wondering if this was such a good idea after all. He watched Lorna have to hope a little to get on her chair, and Legolas eyed her extremely askance when she put her bag on the table.

"Tell us again what you have seen," Thranduil said. "Certain details may be left out."

_That_ needed no explanation. Lorna looked rather grateful for it, too.

"Von Ratched'll be gathering people," he said, "if he's not already. He's not dumb enough to do anything openly yet, but he's got fifty-five years to plan, assuming he lives that long. I wouldn't put it past him."

Thranduil translated that for his son and Galadriel, both of whom seemed somewhat confused. Galadriel said something, and Thranduil asked, "Why fifty-five years?"

Oh. Right. "Shit hits the fan then," Geezer said. "Sauron pops up again in a big, bad way. That hobbit who came through here with the Dwarves five years ago? Yeah, by the way, he's got the One Ring."

Thranduil choked. He actually, audibly choked. "_What?_"

* * *

Oh snap! Aaand Geezer has just thrown a massive monkey-wrench in, well, _The Lord of the Rings_. Von Ratched might think he's got fifty-five years to do his thing, but boy, is he wrong.

So, I'm not just pulling the bit about Lorna's kids being necessary out of my ass. In her fifth book, they save the world as adults, and since some of the other nasty shit from that world is traveling to Middle-Earth eventually, they've got to happen here, too. However, necessary though they might be, I promise this story will never contain noncon or dubcon, or even real smut – noncon and dubcon creep me out, and my ability to write smut got lost with my divorce.

Title means "Damn it all" in Irish.

As ever, reviews are the sustenance of my soul.


	31. Cheiliúradh agus Dúr

In which the Wood-Elves do in fact know how to throw one hell of a party, drunken shenanigans ensue, Lorna finds something very like a Bedazzler (and does much damage with it), and proves that she has no judgment at all when she's hammered.

* * *

Galadriel might have said 'feast', but Geezer wasn't surprised when Thranduil all but dragged him off to another room – this one smaller, and filled with racks of wine.

"Tell me of these books," he said, pouring Geezer a cup of wine. "Lorna had said there was a tale written of the Dwarves and their quest to reclaim Erebor, by a man named Tolkien. How could he know of these things? Who was he?'

Geezer took the wine, wishing like hell it was beer. The entire room smelled so strongly of booze that he could barely smell what was in his cup. "Dunno how he knew," he said, sipping. At least this was good stuff – not that he was any wine connoisseur. "I always assumed he made it all up, and I think everyone else did, too. He was a professor, I think."

"I wonder if _he _will come here," Thranduil said. He sounded fascinated by the idea.

"Can't," Geezer said, sitting on a wine barrel. "He died over forty years ago." Although he _had _seen dead people walking in his vision – God, don't let zombie-Tolkien turn up. That would just be too damn much.

Thranduil sighed, pouring himself a glass. "Of course he is. What happens in the books?"

"Gandalf figures out the Ring was Bilbo's ring that'd been picked up in the mountains," Geezer said. That got him launched into a rambling synopsis of all three books, with occasional tangents that ventured further afield the more he drank. Thranduil let him ramble – no doubt there would be questions later, but that was later.

"Do not speak of this to anyone else," the Elf-king said. "And drink some water, or you will not be awake for the feast."

"Wait, that's _tonight_? Don't you need time to actually plan that kinda thing?"

Thranduil smirked. "Geezer, if you have read those books, you should know that there are some things Elves do not need a plan for. Go reassure Katje you are alive. I must send word to Radagast, and ask if he knows anything of Mithrandir's whereabouts."

Geezer went, staggering slightly, wondering just what the hell they were all in for later.

* * *

News of the feast spread fast – and with it, a massive increase in everyone's workload. Not that anybody minded; winter could get very dull. A feast meant that the cooks could truly practice their craft, that the musicians could dust off their finest instruments. Tailors and seamstresses accosted everyone in sight, desperate for something to do that wasn't purely utilitarian.

Lorna was lucky enough to evade them, but Menelwen, who was behind her, did not. Five of them practically dragged the poor elleth away, and she shot Lorna a desperate, pleading look.

"We don't leave our people in there," Lorna muttered grimly, steeling herself to follow. Maybe she could get some bloody trousers already.

The big sewing room – the only one she knew of – was jammed already, leaving poor Menelwen to be shoved into a corner and measured. Lorna had hoped to grab her friend and yank her back outside, but one of the tailors snatched her up and stood on her on a stool, giving her a rather critical once-over.

"Don't waste your time, mate," she said. "Just give me some trousers and we're golden."

"You cannot wear _trousers _to a feast," he said, sounding as appalled as if she'd suggested he eat a kitten.

"I can, and I will. You haven't got the time to cut anything down to fit me properly, but trousers are easy to alter. If you've absolutely got to, give me a tunic with some embroider on it or something." God, but it was hot in here – too many people. At least Elves didn't get B.O., or this would be even more unpleasant.

"You are hopeless," he said, shaking his head.

"Yup," she agreed. "Damn, check out Katje."

The woman stood on her own stool further along the wall, with eight seamstresses practically fighting over her dress. The one they'd got her in was gorgeous – silvery-blue silk that moved like liquid, the neckline and sleeves of paler fabric that was embroidered with metallic thread the same blue as her eyes. Another Elf stood behind her, expertly twisting the top of her hair into a complicated braid. She would have looked very much like an Elf, if she hadn't been visibly disturbed by the ferocity of the attention that was being paid to her.

"_Katje _is easy to dress," her tailor said severely. "_You _are a challenge. I will make you look decent if it kills me."

"Aren't you a charmer," Lorna muttered, and sighed. "Fine, do what you've got to, but there had better be trousers in there somewhere, or you'll get my boot up your arse."

"You do not have a boot," he pointed out.

"_I'll find one._" She paused. There was something on the floor – a metallic instrument that looked vaguely Bedazzler-like. "What's that for?"

"That?" he asked, following her gaze. "We affix gemstones to dresses with it."

Oh _did_ they? One way or another, that thing was leaving with her. She could put it to very good use later.

* * *

When Ratiri woke, he desperately needed to pee. He didn't know where he was, or why he was – his only certainty was that his bladder was going to burst if he didn't do something about it within the next five seconds.

"Was wondering if you'd ever wake up." Geezer was sitting beside the fireplace, whittling something with a knife that looked far too long for the task.

"Bathroom," Ratiri croaked. "_Now_."

Geezer snorted laughter, but set his work aside, and led Ratiri down a short corridor. The infirmary, if that was still where he was, was entirely empty – he couldn't even see any healers in the rooms they passed. It was actually a little creepy.

"You woke up just in time," Geezer said. "Elves're throwing a feast tonight. We can eat ourselves sick and drink until we forget our own names."

That…actually sounded like fun. Nothing had seemed like it could ever be fun to him since before his curse hit. Thought of so many Elves and their beautiful auras in one place made him truly smile for the first time in months.

Geezer must have noticed, for he grinned. "Let's get wasted. Just don't let the tailors get ahold of you, or you'll never get free. They nabbed Katje an hour ago, and I haven't seen her since."

Ratiri laughed. "Yeah, but she's probably enjoying it."

* * *

Feasts were usually a logistical nightmare for Tauriel. When you got that many drunk people in one place – even if those people were Elves – you never knew what to expect. Fights could break out; the more foolish Elves could decide something like swinging from the overhead candelabra was a fantastic idea, and at least one pair of newlyweds (or not-so-newlyweds) always had to be flushed out of somewhere they should not be. For all the Elves were held up as paragons of dignity, that dignity often flew out the window when too much wine was involved. The guards always drew lots to decide who would be unlucky enough to remain sober, because _someone _had to.

The great hall was seldom used but for feasting. It was easily the biggest room in all the caves – it had to be, to fit the entire population, which usually turned up. It was so large that the lamps on the far wall were mere pinprick, lined with dozens of long tables that left an open space for dancing.

The King had a throne in here as well, though it was not so high as the main one, and it was flanked with tables for whoever was in favor at the moment. Logically those should have been the nobles, but Thranduil was unwilling to surround himself with people who annoyed him on festive occasions. To the right was a throne for Legolas, and to the left there had been placed one fit for Lady Galadriel.

This being winter, there were no flowers to festoon the walls or adorn the tables, but some of the more artistic courtiers were making do with arrangements of berries and dried leaves. Still more stood on ladders, lighting the thousands of tiny lamps that hung from the ceiling – when all were lit, they looked like a mass of stars. The floor was freshly cleaned, the tables set with silver plate and crystal wine-glasses – all in all, it looked like things would not turn disastrous _right _away.

As captain, it was her unfortunate duty to remain sober, though she intended to drink her fill once the feast was over. If this one was anything like ordinary, she would need it.

Equally unfortunately, she still had to dress for the occasion. Everyone did, so she'd always kept a suitable dress. She'd worn it for two hundred years, because it was easy to move swiftly in when necessary, and didn't make her feel like a stranger in her own skin. She might as well go put it on and get it out of the way, so that nothing might explode in her absence. (It had happened before. Multiple times.)

* * *

Arandur seldom attended feasts, but since this one had a visiting dignitary, he felt he ought to. He dug his very seldom-worm formal clothes from the back of his wardrobe, checking tunic and trousers for wrinkles or tears, and put them on. The cut of both was little different from his ordinary clothes, but the tunic was made of deep brown velvet, the high collar rather stiffer than he liked. He was glad he was not one of the higher-ranking scholars; their formal robes were so heavy and stuff he wondered how they could move.

He headed off to see if he could find any of his friends, navigating the unusually crowded corridors and walkways. The excitement in the air was almost palpable; when the halls had not been filled with strain these last weeks, they had been consumed by boredom. Whatever the Elves of other lands might be like, Wood-Elves loved good food and lots of wine, and an occasion that would provide both was always well-attended.

He almost ran headlong into Menelwen, who he very nearly didn't recognize at first. Clearly the seamstresses had got to her, for she wore a dress he doubted she would ever own – russet silk a few shades lighter than her auburn hair, which was free of braids and held back from her brow by a bronze diadem. She could easily have passed for a noble lady, if she had not looked as uncomfortable as a wet cat.

"Not a word," she warned.

"Not unless you want to get kicked, anyway," Lorna added. Her clothes were somewhat odd – too long to be a tunic, too short to be a dress, the hem hit her a mid-shin. She too hadn't escaped the silk, though hers was dark green, embroidered with silver that matched the strands in her hair. Somehow she'd managed to come away with trousers and fine leather boots, rather than stockings and shoes, which had probably taken quite a bit of shouting. Her hair was loose as well, and only partly contained by a silver circlet. Without the braid, she almost seemed more hair than person, but it actually made her look rather pretty.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she said, thrusting a large bag into his arms. "Find somewhere to store that, will you? I'll want it later."

It didn't feel like it was full of cheese. "What is it?"

"The less you know, the better. Can you go shove it in a closet or something that's not too far from the hall?"

He was filled with deep misgiving, but there was no point in arguing with her. There was a large cold-pantry where wine was kept chilled – it was large enough that a bag could be left in it without notice. "All right."

Lorna grinned. "Awesome," she said. "Let's go get drunk."

"I cannot," Menelwen said mournfully. "I drew a short straw. I am doomed to spend the night dealing with the drunks."

Lorna winced. "Sorry," she said. "I promise I won't sick up on anyone, if that helps."

"If you fail, you will not be the only one," Menelwen sighed. "Wood-Elves do not feast in moderation. At least I can get you two in through the guards' entrance, or you might be waiting half an hour to get through the door, let alone find seats. Follow me."

They did, Lorna sticking to Menelwen's shadow so that she wouldn't get knocked over. Arandur detoured to stash her bag, devoutly hoping she wasn't going to do anything _too _horrible with whatever was in it. Even reaching the guard-door was a struggle; the main doors had to be ten times worse.

Dozens of delicious smells assailed his nose before they were even in the hall: roast meat, fruit pies, the little cinnamon pastries the cooks only made on feast days, and many others he couldn't name. Though the hall was far from full, it already echoed with the din of hundreds of voices. Some ten thousand people lived in Thranduil's halls; if they all turned up – and Arandur did not doubt that they would – this could turn to utter mayhem once the wine started flowing. He did not envy Menelwen at all.

He and Lorna found seats at one of the outer tables, which was only lightly populated. There was no waiting to eat at a feast; you filled your plate as soon as you sat, so he started grabbing everything in reach as decorously as he could.

At the far end of the hall, the King, the Prince, and the Lady Galadriel were already seated, and the King had broken out the wine for his table – normally it wasn't poured until everyone had found a place to sit. He was twirling the stem of a wine glass in his fingers, his expression so indulgent that Arandur suspected this was not his first glass. Lady Galadriel was watching with interest – feasts in Lothlórien were likely vastly different (meaning they probably had something like restraint).

Slowly but surely, people started streaming in, but Arandur was at first far more interested in his food. It seemed Lorna was, too, because she didn't actually try to make him talk. He was only aware the halls had been filled when the servers brought out the large carafes of Dorwinion.

Lorna put down her fork, and made grabby-hands before picking up her wine glass and holding it out expectantly. The server looked hesitant to properly fill it, but etiquette demanded it, so he did. Lorna, being, well, _her_, downed half of it at one go. "It burns, doctor, get it out," she said.

Arandur snorted into his own wine. "_What?_"

Lorna burst out laughing. "So, my sister Siobhan was playing leap-frog when we were kids – it's a game where you jump over one another's backs – and missed. She landed face-first on the ground and smashed her two front teeth out, so Mam took her to hospital – that's like the healing wards. In the A &amp; E – accident and emergency – there was another little girl waiting to be seen behind a curtain. She kept saying 'It burns, doctor, get it out.'

"Of course that sounds like it should be something bloody _wrong_, so Mam goes to see what it is, while the lot'v us kids try not to laugh. Turns out the little girl had shoved a cinnamon tic-tac – that's a small, hard candy – up her nose, and it had melted."

Arandur winced, and laughed so hard he had to put down his wine glass before he spilled it. "That is _horrible_. Do Edain children often put things up their noses?"

"When they're little, yeah. And in their mouths, and their ears. My brother Mick somehow got a Lego – that's a tiny toy – stuck in his ear, and we didn't figure it out until his ear got infected, he'd jammed it that far in."

Arandur shook his head, retrieving his wine and sipping. "Your people are very, very odd."

"You don't know the half of it."

Elladan and Elrohir, who had apparently materialized out of nowhere, squeezed onto the bench across from them. "Don't know the half of what?" one asked.

"How weird humans are on Earth." She downed the rest of her glass, and held it up for more. Arandur thought about cautioning her against it, but knew there was no point. He'd seen how she was in Erebor.

"Do not drink too fast," the other twin said. "You danced with Elladan, but you still owe me one."

Lorna snorted. "That was not dancing," she said. "That was perpetually postponed falling. And if you think I'll dance in front'v this lot, drunk _or_ sober, you've another thing coming. I'm not fond'v making a _total _fool'v myself."

"Once it begins in earnest, no one will notice," Elrohir said. "I have seen the Wood-Elves' feasts before. To call them 'rowdy' is an understatement. Especially once the music starts."

As if on cue, the musicians struck up near the King's table. Other Elves might have flutes and harps but the Wood-Elves instruments produced much deeper, darker tones. It worked for lively tunes and for slow one.

The first song of the evening was traditionally the latter, though it built up strength as it went along. The opening dance was always begun by the King and whatever guest or noble he chose – in this case, obviously, Lady Galadriel. It started as a dance for two, but more would join, forming long lines who would trade partners as they went. When the pair at the foot of each line reached the head, they danced down between the rows, and the trading began anew. It was a simple dance, one that even the drunkest of Elves could not mistake. Already, pairs were lining up to join when their turn came.

"Come on," Elrohir said. "While there is still space."

Lorna downed her second glass in three long swallows. "Nope," she said, eyes watering from the strength of the drink. "Too drunk."

"That will not save you," he said. "Either join me on this side of the table, or I will pick you up like a child and lift you over it."

Her eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't."

"He would," Elladan said. "He really would."

"I hate you both," she grumbled. "Fine. Arandur, be a mate and make sure nobody takes my plate away, will you?"

He nodded, and hoped nobody was going to get stabbed, accidentally or otherwise.

* * *

Lorna did a frantic search of Thranduil's memories, and her mind thankfully coughed up this particular dance. She still glowered at Elrohir, but at least she had some idea what she was doing.

The problem, she thought, even as she lined up to face him, was that she was too damn short. Nearly all the Elves she'd ever met were at least a foot taller than her, and that included Elrohir. She simply couldn't reach high enough for some of the steps, and if he tried to compensate for her lack of height, he'd look ridiculous. Oh well. That was his problem.

Since he was more or less making her do this, she was damn glad she'd won her fight with her tailor. Her tunic/dress wasn't long enough to trip on, and her boots were soft, yielding, and had no heel. That averted quite a few potential catastrophes.

No, the hair was the real problem. There was a reason Lorna almost never left it down – Elrohir took her hand to guide her in a circle, and it immediately tried to eat his arm, the fine strands tangling in the black-and-silver brocade of his sleeve. When he'd spun her the full circle, it latched onto his other arm, and suddenly left him looking rather worried.

Lorna couldn't help but laugh. The wine had left her warm and rosy, and though she was irritated with him, his expression was pretty damn funny. "Call'v Cthulu, Elrohir," she said, snickering as she tried to free his left arm.

"Your hair is not Cthulu, Lorna," Thranduil called from up the line.

"You sure about that?" she asked, holding up Elrohir's hair-shackled arm.

"…You may have a point. Do not come near me with that thing."

"That _thing_?" she said, somehow unwinding the tangle around Elrohir's right arm. She'd freed his left just in time for them to part. "It's hair, not Cousin It."

Thranduil and Galadriel passed between her and Elrohir. "Clearly it is sentient, and craves Elven flesh," he said along the way, earning a great many puzzled looks from the other dancers.

"Are you sure it's only _wine _you've been drinking?" she asked, as she tried to keep her hair from consuming her new dance partner. "There weren't any shrooms in it or anything?"

Somebody down the line – probably Elrohir – unsuccessfully tried to choke back a laugh.

"What do you take me for, Lorna?" Thranduil asked in English. "Do you think I would really eat, as you put it, magic mushrooms?"

Now it was Lorna who failed to keep a straight face. "You tell me," she said, also in English. "You're the one who thinks my hair actually wants to eat people." Her dance partner was giving her a look both bewildered and uneasy, and she shrugged, pulling her hair away from his arm.

Thranduil actually kept his mouth shut until they eventually met up at the head of the line. Where, of course, she turned and her hair latched onto his arm like a remora made of thread.

"Don't. Say. It," she ground out, and glared when he made sure she couldn't reach his other hand. "I'm going to invent duct tape, just so I can rip your eyebrows off," she growled in English.

"Your grudge against my eyebrows disturbs me." He was trying to unwind her hair as they moved, and failing.

"Good. Now knock it off and let me do that." By the time they'd reached the end of the line, his arm was his own again. "Someday I'll tell you about the time I choked a bloke unconscious with my braid."

"I already have that memory."

"Of bloody course you do."

* * *

Geezer had been half afraid that the Elves wouldn't really know how to throw _that _great a party, but he didn't need to be. Some of the food was as good as he'd had in Erebor, and once the wine really got to flowing, the often stoic dignity of the Elves cracked and shattered.

The dancing started out pretty and formal, but thanks to Katje's interference, it didn't remain so for long. Had the Elves been sober, her dances would probably have shocked the hell out of them, but as they were all at least three sheets to the wind, nobody objected when she grabbed one and tried to teach him the tango.

One young Elf chased another across the tables, deft feet flying, never once landing on something they shouldn't. A third grabbed a carafe of wine as she passed, downing the last of its contents as she ran. Five Elves were having a spirited argument – he didn't know what it was about, but it involved a lot of hand-waving.

It evidently made their auras something worth looking at, because Ratiri was staring at them, enthralled. The kid had actually eaten a decent amount, for once, and was relaxed as only booze could make a person. Not even the loudest noise had made him flinch – he actually looked his age tonight, rather than old and weary before his time. Maybe he'd actually get out on that dance floor before the night was over.

The music halted, leaving the dancers milling and confused, and then the opening bars of Heart's _Crazy on You _tore through the air. Lorna must have found something resembling a guitar – when he stood and craned his head, he saw that she'd booted one of the musicians out of the way and stolen her instrument, which did indeed look a hell of a lot like a guitar. She didn't sing the song, but she was having fun shredding it. He'd heard her play, in the week before the MiG showed up – he'd known she was good, but she had to be _really _good to nail such a hard song with how drunk she obviously was.

The Elves didn't seem to know how to dance to it, but Katje got them going again. If Lorna had an electric guitar, she'd probably have a mosh pit right now. Soon they started trying to come up with their own dances, unfairly graceful for people so thoroughly hammered.

Lady Galadriel watched it all, looking pretty damn amused, and Geezer didn't wonder why. Elf-parties probably weren't like this anywhere else, or they wouldn't have such a reputation for wisdom and dignity. This was a refined version of a frat party.

Lorna ran through another song – he didn't recognize it at first, but he soon realized it was that song from that fucked-up movie, scored for a guitar. That was a little easier for the Elves to dance to, and more o them poured out onto the floor.

The song ran on and out and into _Edge of Seventeen_, but when she'd tog through that one, she released the instrument back to its rightful owner, sucking on her sore fingertips. She gave a small bow, hopped off the dais, and vanished.

"More booze," Geezer said, hunting down a half-full wine carafe. "C'mon, kid, the night's young. Let's light this shit up."

No sooner had he spoken than a gout of flame a good four feet high shot in the air not ten chairs down. Some drunk genius must have tried to combine wine and fire, but Geezer couldn't figure out how they'd made such an impressive flame with it.

Nor did he have a chance to figure it out, because the centerpiece of twigs and dried leaves went up like a torch, which some bright spark tried to douse with more wine. Naturally, that ended poorly.

Geezer didn't bother moving, even when the flaming puddle seeped toward him. "Wisest and fairest of all beings, my ass," he snorted.

* * *

Lorna, her makeshift Bedazzler, and a bottle of wine all snuck out of the hall, tiptoeing in a not-at-all straight line toward Thranduil's room. He'd be out for hours yet, by the look of things, and he still had some clothing she hadn't ruined – er, _improved._

Everybody, it seemed, was at the feast, for she encountered no one at all as she staggered, tripped, and occasionally outright fell her way through the vast, echoing caverns. Everything she'd gone through with the tailor was totally worth it, since it gave her this wonderful little weapon of mass decorative destruction.

When she finally reached Thranduil's room, she ran into the doorjamb, smacking her forehead so hard she saw stars. The fire had burned low, leaving things rather chilly, so she fed it a few sticks and then lit a row of candles, laid out on the floor in as precise a line as she could manage – not that that was saying much. She burnt her fingers three times, too, but she was drunk enough that she didn't really care.

The silver dress with its new pink ribbons still sat where she'd left it, so she sat on the floor and dragged it toward her, digging the little bag of gemstones out of her pocket. Pink and green went together, right? He could have like, a shiny, ribbon-y watermelon sort of dress. The candlelight glinted off the silver threads, and she paused a moment to watch it, shifting the fabric as she did.

Her first attempt to load her bargain-basement Bedazzler was a massive failure – all she succeeded in doing was pinching her finger. She was probably way too drunk to be attempting anything require actual dexterity, but screw it. Four more tries and she managed to clumsily shoot a green stone through the sleeve. It wasn't anchored very well, and left the fabric bunched and crooked, but she was as proud as if she'd concocted a masterpiece.

She wanted to try to Bedazzle a frog shape, but all she managed to do was create a vague blob all the way up along the sleeve, somehow sticking one of the little jewels to her boot along the way. They glittered in the light, too, like flashing emerald, although she doubted that was what they actually were.

"I thought I told you to stop wrecking my wardrobe."

Lorna turned her head and glared at Thranduil, who was already glaring at her. "You're supposed to be at your feast, Drag Queen Barbie," she said, slurring a little.

He arched an eyebrow. "So are you. I knew you'd be up to something as soon as you left." From the way he spoke, she wouldn't have thought him drunk at all, if he hadn't tripped on his way through the door. He didn't just trip, either – he actually had to grab the back of the armchair, staggering like a graceless human.

She burst out laughing. "Well aren't you half ossified," she said, and only laughed harder at the glower he gave her. "Do the field sobriety test. G'wan, I dare you."

His only response was an even blacker glower, so she threw his dress at him. He caught it, but barely, and stumbled so badly that he sat down, throwing it back at her. A graceless Elf was so unnatural that it was beyond hilarious, and his utterly indignant look just made it worse – Lorna laughed until she nearly cried, shooting herself in the foot with a gemstone while she was at it.

Thranduil leaned over and snatched her gun away, ignoring her cry of protest. "You," he said, "need something to do." While he didn't actually slur the s, she was pretty sure that he would have if he'd been human.

"Wanna go to Mordor," she said, making a halfhearted swipe for the not-Bedazzler.

"You really don't," he said, tossing it out of reach. The tailors were probably going to be pissed at her if he broke it, god dammit. She flailed in its general direction, but only succeeded in falling over.

"Sure I do. Wanna go on an adventure, like Bilbo. Back and forth from here to Dale isn't an _adventure_." The ceiling was spinning slightly – or maybe it was the floor. Something was spinning, and it wasn't her.

"Neither is Mordor, if it kills you. Which it would," Thranduil said, giving her a disapproving look that was somewhat hampered by the fact that, at closer inspection, he really was obviously smashed.

"Your glare doesn't work when you're shitfaced," she said. "And I wouldn't die. Because no."

"'Because no' carries no weight with the universe," he said, with a gravity that cracked her up all over again. "You need to go to Gondor. I don't want to deal with Von Ratched on my own." He actually sounded petulant, like a cranky child who didn't want to go to school, and that only made her laugh harder. Her sides ached, and she tried desperately to breathe like a normal person.

"I can't go to Gondor," she eventually managed, hiccupping between words. "Remember?"

He flopped down beside her – actually _flopped _– and gave her a look that was even more petulant. "There will be some way around that," he said. "There must be. Have those children and you need not worry about – you know, things. Anything."

"Doesn't work like that," she said. "Is the floor rocking? Is it actually rocking, or is it just me?"

Thranduil didn't answer right away. "It's just you." He sat up enough to lean on his elbow, looking down at her like he thought he'd just had the most fantastic idea in the entirety of creation. The picture would have worked a lot better if his crown hadn't been crooked _and _stuck in his hair. "We should do something about that," he said. "The…baby problem."

Lorna's eyebrows went up. "Thranduil, that's a _terrible _idea," she said, and she was fairly sure that it was, although she couldn't think of _why _at the moment, other than the fact that this was Thranduil, and all his ideas were terrible.

"Why?" he asked, as though he genuinely didn't understand.

"Because…because it _is_. If you were sober, you'd know that."

He looked so offended that she started laughing all over again, not even bothering trying to sit up. Standing would probably end in disaster – the floor was a good place to be. She shut her eyes, hoping that the spinning would stop.

She wasn't aware Thranduil had moved until his hair brushed her face. "I am going to get you a bell," she said, opening her eyes and glowering up at him. Christ, he was tall, and that was somehow even more evident when they were both lying down.

He smirked down at her, the expression on his alcohol-flushed face a little too self-satisfied. "Shut up, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "I want to try something."

"Wha –" she started, but was cut off when he kissed her.

Why she didn't hit him, she never did know. Even drunk off her gourd, she should have known better, but she _really _didn't. He tasted, rather predictably, like wine, and she had to grudgingly admit that he did smell really good – alcohol, yes, but also sandalwood, and some other spicy thing she couldn't identify.

"This is still a terrible idea," she said, but with much less conviction. Saying it was automatic reflex.

"Repeating that won't make it true," Thranduil said, rising and picking her up in one semi-smooth motion. It would have been a lot more impressive if he hadn't almost fallen over backward – he staggered, tipping over one of the candles, which made Lorna burst out laughing all over again.

"Graceful," she snickered. "Tell anybody I said this and I'll gut you in your sleep, but the whole superhuman strength thing is kind'v a turn-on, when you're not trying to kill me with it."

"You talk entirely too much when you are drunk," he complained, lurching to the bed like a zombie. "If you keep that up, we'll never get anywhere, so as your people say, shut your cake-hole."

Of course that cracked her up all over again, so as soon as they'd actually reached the bed, he shut her up with another kiss.

This really was a terrible idea, but Lorna had forgot why she should care.

* * *

Yes, Lorna, that really _was_ a terrible idea. At least it wasn't yours. Naturally, those two can't even have drunk-people sex without insulting each other the whole time. (Seriously, even if I was actually capable of writing smut, this situation probably wouldn't be hot at all, because they'd be bitching at one another nonstop. I'm actually almost tempted to try it as a side-piece.)

So, Lorna's two stories are based on real things. The "it burns" story comes from my friend Rachel, who did smash her teeth out and go to the ER as a little girl and heard that. The Lego-in-ear plus infection happened to my son when he was four.

The "fucked-up movie" Geezer refers to is "Requiem for a Dream".

Title means "Celebrations and Stupidity" in Irish. In this case reviews are definitely love, because I have no idea just how this development is going to go over with you all.


	32. Interlude: Lorna and Thranduil

So, this _technically_ counts as non-explicit smut, because sex does happen, in between Lorna and Thranduil drunkenly insulting each other. I say 'technically' because it's humorous rather than hot, because duh, these two. Starts off immediately after the last chapter ended.

* * *

"You can't just kiss me every time you want me to shut up," Lorna grumbled, even as Thranduil's fingers actually fumbled with the laces of her tunic. "I'll suffocate."

"I don't – " kiss "—think so— " kiss. He was unfairly, infuriatingly good at that, and she found herself rather annoyed.

"Now you're just trying to be a smartass," she said. "How the hell long does it take you to put this thing on? There's like two hundred buttons!" They were so small she'd probably have had a hard time with them sober, let alone so drunk she literally couldn't see straight. "Oh, fuck it." She gave the fabric a good hard yank, sending buttons flying everywhere. One of them bounced off her forehead.

Thranduil paused, and sighed. "Lorna, if you keep wrecking my wardrobe, I will have no clothes at all. I cannot rule this kingdom wearing a sheet."

"The Romans did it," she pointed out, murdering the rest of the buttons just for the hell of it before shoving the dress – and yes, it was a dress – down off his shoulders. "You know, you're not bad for a white boy," she said, running her hand along his chest. "Even if you'd be a prettier woman than me."

His eyes narrowed. "You really _do_ talk too much when you're drunk." He kissed her again before she could say anything more, and okay, while this might be an awful idea, it sure as hell didn't feel like one at the moment. It had been a long time since she'd done this, and at least he knew what he was doing. She could let him shut her up this way, just this once.

He finally got the laces undone, but as soon as his hand touched her bare side, she burst into a fit of giggles that startled him so much he sat up, giving her an incredibly confused look.

"Tickles," Lorna explained, and immediately wished she hadn't, because of course that meant he attacked both her sides, leaving her to flail, half trapped by her own clothing, unable to stop laughing and wanting to slaughter him ever more by the second. Finally she sat up enough to bite the side of his neck – not to hurt, but to get his attention.

"You know," she said, leaning back enough to look at him and arching an eyebrow, "With your skin, I bet you bruise amazingly."

He obviously didn't understand what she meant, so she struggled free of her sleeves, wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and latched onto his neck like a vampire, determined to give him a hickey he wouldn't soon forget.

Thranduil froze, and shuddered, and okay, _that_ was pretty hot. She'd always had the most fun with Liam when she drew involuntary reactions from him, because in some ways Lorna was apparently a control freak. She raked her blunt nails down his chest, and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath – _this_ was more like it. Now he was the one who would shut up.

She paused long enough to say, "Get down here, will you? This is a seriously awkward angle" and went back to work. Thank God he tasted good.

"You're rather assertive, aren't you?" he asked into her hair, and she'd swear his voice dropped an octave, which did things to her insides she would never admit to.

"And this surprises you?" she asked, and licked the corner of his jaw. That earned her another shudder, and a ragged exhale into her hair.

"I suppose it should not. But I am not the only one who will leave this marked." His reflexes weren't quite so keen while drunk – he accidentally smacked his chin against her nose – but in less than three seconds, he had her head tilted back and his mouth on her throat, unerringly finding the spot just below her jaw that made her toes curl. His fingers carded through her hair, which by now was a hopeless tangle, and he paused long enough to murmur against her ear, "My turn"

Dammit, since when did she find Thranduil's voice sexy? It had always annoyed her, because it was, well, his, but it was sure doing things to her now. He'd overwhelm her if she let him, which was probably his goal, because he was an arsehole. He was working his way down her neck and along her collarbones, his hands trailing up and down her arms, and she abruptly realized that A.) she still had her boots on, and B.) there was a rather large height disparity. From a sheer logistical standpoint, that was going to be a problem.

She tapped him on the back of the head, and his expression was distinctly grumpy at being interrupted. "Boots," she said. "Yours too. Also, you're the size'v a tree and I could probably fit in your shoe, so how is this going to work?"

He blinked down at her, and she sighed – clearly he hadn't thought of that. "Boots first," she said, nearly falling over when he let her sit up. Her alcohol-numbed fingers scrabbled at the laces, tangling them horribly, but she got the left off, and a good minute later managed the right, kicking both onto the floor. It was a good thing she'd built up the fire, or she'd be awfully chilly right about now.

She jumped a little when Thranduil's hair tickled across her back, and his mouth pressed against her left shoulder blade. Other women might be sensitive in their boobs or their thighs, but for Lorna it was her back and her arms. There was only one way he could know that, too. "You went through my memories with Liam, didn't you?"

"You didn't sift through mine with my wife?" he asked against her skin.

"Uh, _no_, because that is supremely fucked-up and wrong," she grumbled, but shivered when he ran his hands down her arms.

"You'll be glad I did," he said, this time against the side of her neck. "You're difficult to please."

"Yeah, well, I bet you're not," she said, turning and almost tipping backward off the side of the bed. "Most men aren't." She gave his chest a hard shove, knocking him onto his back. "Let's test a theory." She had to climb him like a tree to reach his left ear, but when she had, she gently closed her teeth at the point.

This time he didn't just shudder – he let out a groan that did even more fluttery things to her insides. "Thought so," she said, and traced the edge with her tongue.

"You," he said, slightly strained, "are _evil_."

"Damn right I am," she said proudly, and bit his ear again.

He walked the fingers of both his hands up her spine, pressing lightly as he went, and now she was the one who shivered. "You're still wearing too many clothes," he said, pressing deep circles into her shoulders.

"So are you," Lorna said, not quite managing to keep her voice steady, damn him. "Still the height problem, though."

"That can wait," Thranduil said, sitting her up so he could try to deal with the laces on her trousers.

"Break those and I'll kill you," she said, clawing her hair out of her face.

"Give me a _little_ credit," he retorted, even as he fumbled.

"Oh, give over," she sighed, batting his hands away. Even if he hadn't been drunk, she doubted he was used to taking off trousers that weren't his. "Deal with your own."

"You're sitting on me," he pointed out, and she rolled her eyes before rolling to the side, nearly smacking her head on the footboard.

"I haven't done this in a while, as you bloody well know," she grumbled, finally getting the damn laces untangled. "If you're not careful, this'll hurt, and then I really will have to kill you." She managed to kick her trousers off, but her knickers got tangled on her right foot, and wouldn't come loose. "Oh, bloody hell."

"And here I thought you could not become any less graceful," he snorted, sitting up and pulling them off. "This will not hurt."

"Shut your gob or I'll shut it for you." Since his hands were occupied, she could bite his ear again without fear of retaliation. "It had better not."

Had she not been drunk, she probably would have been able to tell how she wound up lying straight on the bed again, head on pillows that were criminally soft, her left leg hooked over Thranduil's shoulder. "It won't," he promised, and then her brain temporarily shut down.

Normally Lorna actually wasn't very fond of having someone go down on her – Liam, love him though she did, hadn't been very good at it – but Thranduil immediately made her revise her opinion. Whatever he was doing with his tongue shouldn't be _legal_, and when he added fingers – his very _long_ fingers – to the mix, she gripped his hair to keep him right where he was. If he stopped now, she really _would_ kill him.

Of course the bastard had to draw it out, until she gave him a sharp kick to the kidney with the heel of her right foot. "Oh my _God_, will you hurry it up?" she demanded, not caring how breathless she sounded.

"Impatient," he said, but obliged, and then her vision went white. She probably pulled his hair hard enough to hurt, but if he complained, she didn't hear it. Somebody could have dropped a nuke and she wouldn't have heard it.

When she'd recovered enough to be more than hazily aware of her surroundings, she found Thranduil looming over her, smirking in a very self-satisfied way.

"Better?" he asked.

Lorna smacked him on the shoulder. "Yes, and you know it, you smug bastard."

"Good," he said, still smirking. "I think I've found a way around the height problem." He sat back on his knees, pulling her onto his lap. "Now nobody gets suffocated."

She had to grudgingly admit he had a point. She had to even more grudgingly admit that no, this definitely did not hurt. _At all_. Even drunk, she was rather embarrassed by the noise she made, grabbing his shoulders to steady herself. For a moment her eyes drifted shut, but when she opened them and found him still smirking, she said, "Are you gonna move, or what?"

"Are you ever _not_ obnoxious?" he asked, but his voice wasn't quite steady.

"Maybe when I'm asleep," she retorted, and bit him again.

"Somehow I doubt even then," he said dryly, but move he did, and she muffled another rather embarrassing noise against his skin. Dammit.

His left arm had locked around her waist, holding her steady, but his right hand traced her spine and tilted her head back. Their height difference was not so great that they couldn't kiss, and he seemed determined to keep her quiet that way. She'd be annoyed at how well it was working, if she was capable of being annoyed by anything.

Eventually, though, she broke his concentration with another smack to the back of the head. "_Air_," she gasped. "Humans do need to breathe, you know."

"An irritating restriction," Thranduil grumbled. "If I can't shut you up, I'll just have to keep you from talking."

"The fuck – oh, damn you." Lorna groaned when his mouth again found that sweet spot just beneath her jaw. That was enough to boot her right over the edge again, and it was probably a good thing she had no idea what sounds left her throat, or she would have been _really_ embarrassed.

She didn't know how long it took her to come down from her high, but it seemed like Thranduil wasn't done yet – fucking hell did that dude have stamina. Now that she had coherent thought, watching him was weirdly fascinating – normally he was so distant and controlled, but he sure as hell wasn't either right now. She couldn't reach his ear with her mouth, but she traced her fingertips along the shell. That made him groan so deep she could feel it, his head falling back and giving her full access to his throat. Well, she could hardly pass _that_ opportunity up. First she licked, then she bit, and shivered when he shuddered.

His hand clamped on the back of her head, a silent request for more. She obliged with gusto, wondering how much she could wring from him, until with a final groan his fingers tightened painfully in her hair, and all the tension left his body in an instant.

He very nearly dropped her when he let her back down onto the bed, and she snickered at his rather blitzed expression. "Was it good for you?" she asked, arching an eyebrow.

"_Yes_, you aggravating little monster," he said, and actually rolled his eyes. "I know it was for you, too."

"Smug berk," Lorna muttered, even as he bet his head to her neck again. "What're you doing?"

Thranduil laughed, and she could feel it all through her. "Elves don't have a refractory period, Dilthen Ettelëa."

"Piece've advice? Don't_ ever_ let that get out, or you'll never be done with having humans trying to knock down your gates."

* * *

Trust those two to make sex unsexy. Their morning-after is going to be gloriously awkward, the poor bastards.


	33. Maidin Tar éis

So, I re-wrote this morning after scene three times. In which things are extremely awkward for Lorna and Thranduil, but at least Geezer and Galadriel are smart enough to think about the fact that, you know, Bilbo has the frigging One Ring.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she devoutly wished she hadn't. Never in all her life had she had such a headache, and that was _really_ saying something: it felt like her brain had been baked under a desert sun, then scoured with lemons and salt for good measure. Her eye sockets might as well have been lined with bony spines, and her mouth tasted as though something had crawled in it and died.

She felt so foul that she did not at first realize that A.) she had no idea where she was, B.) she had no clothes on, and C.) someone's arm was slung around her waist.

Memory slammed into her like Mack truck, snapping her eyes open, which of course made her wince. What the hell had she _done_ last night? Well, okay, the 'what' was fairly obvious, but what in God's bloody name had made her think it was a good idea? Lorna had done some right stupid things while drunk and/or high – stealing a Dublin city bus at one in the morning and crashing it into the River Shannon sprang to mind – but in all her thirty-three years, she had never once had a drunken one-night stand. This was a new low even for her.

Well, the arm was dead weight – Thranduil had to still be asleep. Maybe she could sneak out, and they could pretend this never happened – though it would still make later interaction _really_ bloody awkward.

Naturally, of course, she couldn't be so lucky. She'd only got the arm halfway shifted when it tensed, and she swore under her breath, shutting her eyes in despair. "Not a word, Thranduil. I'm going to do the Walk of Shame, and we'll never speak'v this again." God, she sounded like she'd swallowed a pound of sand.

"We're going to have to," he said, thankfully removing his arm. He sounded no better than she did.

"Thranduil, I've got a morning-after that could kill an elephant," she grumbled. "Unless we are actually, literally about to die, I don't want to hear it." She pressed her face into the pillow, wondering if she could suffocate herself with it and be spared any further humiliation.

"By the customs of my people, we are married," he said grimly.

She rolled to face him, keeping the blankets up under her chin. "_What?!_" she demanded, and winced at the pain the sound of her own voice brought. "Pretty sure you didn't mention _that_ little tidbit last night, or we wouldn't be in this position. And that was a _really_ unfortunate choice of words."

Thranduil was actually, legitimately _blushing,_ though he also looked as hung-over as she felt. His hair was a wild mess, and good frigging God, she really had left him with a truly impressive hickey. "An oversight on my part."

Lorna's eyebrows shot up. "You call _that_ an oversight? Well, we're sure as hell not married by the standards'v _my_ people. So long as nobody else ever knows this happened, it's not an issue, and I'd never breathe a bloody word'v it to anyone."

He looked rather pointedly at her neck, and when she touched it, she found a number of sore places. "Oh, for fuck's sake," she sighed, shutting her eyes. "Well, I've loads'v hair I can just leave down to cover that. A day or two and it won't show. Can I _go_ now? I need a bath and something for my head, before it splits open and leaks my brains out all over your pillow."

He sighed, and she heard him get up, which _definitely_ made her keep her eyes shut. Was it actually possible to die from embarrassment? She was afraid she was going to find out. She heard him rifle through some drawer or other. "Give me your hand," he said, and she was so sick and so miserable that she did. He pressed a small glass bottle against her palm – its contents smelled of cinnamon and vanilla: the hangover cure. She downed it all without opening her eyes, and then heavy fabric dropped on top of her, part of it on her head.

"Robe," Thranduil said. "Much thought I wish this was not necessary, we really do need to speak."

"_Why?_" she whined, trying to struggle into it and stay under the blankets at the same time. At least her head no longer felt like it was full of bees. Of course the robe was twelve sizes too big, leaving her swamped in it and unable to find the end of the sleeves. It also smelled like Thranduil, which, yeah, _not_ going there. She was pretty sure she'd spent a while just sniffing his hair last night, like a total creep.

"There _was_ an objective to last night," he said, sounding so uncomfortable she could actually feel it like a solid force. "If we managed to achieve it, it will create…problems."

"Do I want to know what kind?" she asked, finally opening her eyes. His hair really was hopeless, though probably not as bad as hers.

"As you might put it, the shotgun wedding kind," he said grimly. "Among the Eldar, I would dishonor you greatly if I got you with child and then did not marry you. The trouble is that though my wife has gone to the Halls of Mandos, I am still already married."

"Yeah, well, _I_ won't feel dishonored if you don't," Lorna said, still hunting for the ends of the sleeves. "Women have kids out'v wedlock all the time in Ireland. Some'v the old farts might have a problem with it, but otherwise it's no big deal. Shotgun weddings are mostly a thing of the past." There, that was the hem of the right sleeve. "And anyway, we don't _want_ to get married. Anybody who wants to force that issue can get stuffed, so far as I'm concerned. If I actually am up the yard, you're a baby-daddy, and by definition you can't be my husband." It was a good thing that this room was big, because she was looking everywhere but at him, so it was nice to have something to look _at_. She wasn't sure she'd ever be able to meet Thranduil's eyes again, because…well, _because._

"What in Eru's name is a baby-daddy?"

"It's like…well, there's a lot'v definitions, but it covers this," she explained. "If a one-night stand happens and the woman gets a little bit preggers, they might agree to be co-parents, but not spouses or anything like that. That way the kid had two parents – just not in the normal sense."

"That is appalling."

Lorna glared at him – or rather, at his chest, which to her horror had a visible bite-mark beside the left edge of the robe. "More appalling than marriage?" she demanded. "_Marriage_, Thranduil. It's Serious Business for you people, but I don't take it lightly, either, and I'll not get married just because somebody else thinks I ought to."

She tried to adjust the robe so she could actually stand up without flashing anything, and winced. The hangover-cure took away all the pain caused by the actual hangover, but she was sore in other ways and other places that she _really_ did not want to think about. "Besides," she said, attempting to distract herself and will the heat out of her face, "a woman's prime childbearing years are her twenties. Depending on what month it is, I'm nearly thirty-four. My odds'v getting knocked-up after a one-night stand aren't as high as they'd be if I was ten years younger." Even in her twenties, she'd been with Liam for two years before she got pregnant the first time, and they hadn't been very good at being careful for a long while before that.

"What do you mean, past your prime?" Thranduil asked suspiciously."Is this going to be dangerous for you?"

"I'm not _that_ old," Lorna snorted. "It doesn't start getting _dangerous_ until a woman starts pushing forty." Okay, wow, there was some rather unpleasant stickiness. "Can I use your washroom?" she added, wondering if her face was actually going to catch fire.

"…Yes," he said uncomfortably, clearly realizing why she needed it.

"Back in a minute," she said, trying not to stumble over the vastly too-long robe, and naturally failing. She didn't _mean_ to slam the bathroom door, but she did it anyway.

Christ, _now_ what was she to do? She had no idea if there was etiquette for a one-night stand or not. The marriage thing didn't worry her – she could yell 'cultural differences' until anyone with a potential attitude problem shut up. No, what got to her was how agonizingly _awkward_ things were going to be for the rest of her natural life.

She looked in the mirror over the washbasin, and swore. Her hair was made up of nothing but tangles, and her neck looked like she'd been attacked by a wild badger. She'd have to wear her hair like a bloody _shawl_ to hide this damage. Sod it, she was going to stay in her room for a week.

Certain other unpleasant ablutions had to be taken care of before anything else, but she lingered long after she was finished, not wanting to go back out into the Land of Awkward. To pass the time, she found Thranduil's hairbrush and sat on the floor, trying to deal with the snarled mess that had once been her hair.

"If you wish to drown yourself, do it in your own washroom."

"Go away."

"_You_ go away. These are my rooms."

Lorna stuck her tongue out at the door. "You go away so I can find my clothes, and then _I'll_ go away, and things don't have to get any more uncomfortable than they already are."

"Fine."

She waited a minute, then cracked open the door. Thranduil was indeed gone, so she hunted down all her clothes and snuck into the bathroom to dress. Once she got back to her own room, she was doing to take a hot bath and then sleep for the next week.

* * *

Almost the entire population of Thranduil's halls was suffering greatly after last night's feast/rave. Geezer was one of the very few who was not, and he was using everyone else's hangovers as an excuse to explore.

He'd learned long ago that matching each drink with at least an equal amount of water was the only really effective way of staving off a hangover. Honestly, he was surprised the Elves hadn't figured it out, given that they lived so long, but sure didn't look like any of them had.

It wouldn't be long before the healers began passing around the hangover-cure in earnest, so he'd best get his exploring done while he could.

So they were sending for Gandalf. _Gandalf_, who in time would probably bring Bilbo. Katje and Ratiri couldn't understand how amazing this was for him – he first remembered reading all four books in 'Nam, and it was one of the few positive memories in the middle of that nightmare. He'd had a Frodo Lives pin and everything. To meet Galadriel and Gandalf…it wasn't just that he'd left the hell of the Institute – he'd stepped into the closest thing to heaven he was still capable of believing in. Even knowing Von Ratched was here couldn't ruin that for him.

If there actually was an expedition to Mordor – and he couldn't see how there wouldn't be one – he was in on it. That was non-negotiable. Shit, half the members of what should have been the Fellowship hadn't been born yet, and two of them that were, Gimli and Aragorn, were too young. Only Gandalf, Legolas, and Bilbo could realistically go, and that wasn't anywhere near enough people. Whoever else went, Geezer was damn well going to be among them.

Katje and Ratiri were probably no-go's. She'd hate it, and he didn't need to be any more traumatized than he already was. Though Geezer had seen a vision of Katje as a warrior-woman, he didn't think it happened this way.

Lorna might go – Lorna, who was staggering along the walkway above him like a zombie, looking rather like Death warmed over. If she took care of that whole 'kid' problem, she could go anywhere she wanted, kicking ass and taking names. There weren't many he'd trust to have at his back, but she was one of them. And once she no longer looked like she was about to keel over if a breeze hit her, he'd tell her so.

* * *

Never in all his life had Thranduil truly been embarrassed until now, and it was not a feeling he relished. Like everyone else in the world, his judgment under the influence of wine was poor, but there was 'poor' and then there was 'insane'.

He needed to meet with Galadriel, but before he could do that, he had to find some way to hide the large purple splotch on the side of his neck. He vaguely remembered Lorna speculating that he probably bruised amazingly, and unfortunately she was right.

(Now that she was gone, he wasn't too mortified to admit to himself that at least it had felt quite nice.)

Digging through his wardrobe produced a robe with a slightly higher collar than the others, and mercifully intact. He'd had a bath and washed his hair, and could attempt to pass himself off as respectable. He knew already that Galadriel would not have over-indulged herself last night – unfortunately for him, she would be entirely clear-headed. And he did not want to imagine what she would do, if she figured out what he had been up to last night.

He winced as he shrugged into the robe – there were scratch-marks on his back he didn't remember acquiring. Eru, but this was humiliating. Still, with the collar buttoned all the way and his hair loose, the mark was hidden nicely. He still looked a little wan, but the hangover cure wasn't perfect. Last night, during a lull in their…activities, Lorna had said, 'One'v these days your liver will go on strike. You'll wake up to find it sitting on your pillow, holding a tiny picket sign and staring at you with the eyes it hasn't got.'

Thranduil shook his head. This was as good as he was going to get; there was nothing for it but to power through the day, as the Edain of Earth put it. Thank Eru he could fake dignity.

He ran his comb through his hair one last time before setting out – it was still damp, but he'd had no choice but to wash it. He'd smelled like Lorna – not something an Edain would have noticed, but Lady Galadriel certainly would. His entire accursed room smelled like her: an odd but not unpleasant combination of lavender and fir. At least _that_ could be blamed on her having snuck in to destroy his wardrobe, and it had the added benefit of being true.

With a sigh, he marched off, and hoped it was not to his doom. He was unsurprised to find the halls apparently empty; his people would likely spend today and perhaps much of tomorrow sleeping off the excesses of last night.

Doubtless Geezer was in no condition to repeat all he had told Thranduil to Galadriel, and at any rate there was nothing to do about it until Mithrandir arrived. A messenger would have to be dispatched to Dale, to tell Bard of the Woodland Realm's need of the wizard.

It was a fascinating and terrifying thing, knowing that an Edain of Lorna's world had written of things that had not yet come to pass in Middle-Earth. How could he have known anything of this world, let alone events from the future? If Geezer was right, and this Tolkien was dead, they would likely never know.

When Thranduil reached Galadriel's room, he was annoyed but unsurprised to find that she seemed perfectly fine. She let him in with a smile dancing in her eyes, not a golden hair out of place.

"When your people celebrate, they do it with vim, King Thranduil," she said.

"And pay for it accordingly the next day," he said, and though he didn't grimace, the sentiment was clear in his voice. "I hope you enjoyed the feast, and not merely because of the entertainment my people afford when they are deep in their cups."

Now she did smile. "I did," she said. "But I think that is not what you have come to discuss." She poured him some water while he moved to the sofa.

"No," he said, sitting, "it is not. If Geezer is right – if the hobbit does in truth have the One Ring – we must decide what to do about it. Even if Sauron is weak, we cannot simply stroll up to Mount Doom and throw the accursed thing in. And that is quite aside from this Doctor von Ratched, who might well try to stop any party crossing Gondor."

"In that I would seek Mithrandir's counsel," Galadriel said. "And I would know more of this doctor from the three Edain who have had dealings with him. It is not, I think, safe to make for Mordor until we have dealt with him. For that we need Lorna, who I hope has not poisoned herself on all that wine."

Thranduil didn't flinch, but it was a near thing. "I doubt it," he said evenly. "That woman could out-drink a Dwarf. Though she is surely as miserable as everyone else." All those things were true, and thus would ring true. One could not lie to Lady Galadriel, but he was a genius at creatively editing the truth.

"Well, bring her here when she is not," she said, handing him the cup. "We must plan."

Oh, _that_ would be difficult. Thranduil could mask his discomfort, but he doubted Lorna could. How were they to keep this from Galadriel then?

He did not know, but they were going to have to think of _something_, and soon.

* * *

Yeah, sooner or later those two are actually going to have to face each other around other people. If I'm feeling extra horrible, it will be when Gandalf shows up, because the more people they have to be awkward in front of, the better. (I am a cruel, cruel writer.)

The title, appropriately, means "Morning After" in Irish.


	34. Nochtann

In which Lorna reads up on Mordor, Thranduil keeps insisting she can't go, Galadriel figures out more than either of them would ever want, and points out that there are potential consequences to their actions that neither considered. (Not that Lorna could have, since she lacked the relevant information.)

* * *

It took a full three days for the denizens of Thranduil's halls to recover from their feast. Lorna spent them either sleeping, or taking hot baths in an attempt to alleviate…soreness. Even with the hangover cure, food was not to be thought of for the first two, and on the third, she crept down to the kitchen very late at night, hoping she wouldn't run into anyone. Thankfully, the hickeys had faded, save for the one at the juncture of her throat and jaw, and that was easily hidden by her hair. She could actually walk like a normal person, too, which was a plus.

Some thoughtful person had put a few clothes in her closet while she was away – dresses, but at least she could wear her trousers underneath them. They were plain, the way she liked her clothing, in various earthy shades of green and brown. She chose the brown one, and actually felt human once she was properly dressed.

Out she crept, barefoot so as to make less noise – not that it would make much difference, since an Elf would hear her coming either way.

There was no one about, and it was hours past dinner. If the kitchen wasn't at least mostly empty, she'd be very surprised. The night-duty guards would be patrolling, and the rest would likely be sparring. She'd got so used to the warmth of her room that the halls actually felt chilly, and she shivered as she descended the numerous steps.

The kitchen, thankfully, was still warm, though the fire was mostly burnt down to coals. Only one corner was properly illuminated – Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri had put a big yellow lamp on the table. It looked like Geezer and Katje were playing chess with home-made pieces, while Ratiri relaxed and watched.

Looking at them still gave Lorna a strange sense of, well, _loss_. In another life, another universe, she'd been close to all of them, and more than close to Ratiri. Geezer and Katje, and even Ratiri at first, had been kind to her, but their bond was already formed. They had endured an experience together that she did not share, and while she might become fast friends with them, she would never be one of them.

And where did that leave her? She was close with some of the Elves, especially three that had gone to Dale with her, but she was not an Elf. It was like she occupied some weird limbo-state, alien to both peoples, neither one thing nor the other.

She tiptoed away before anyone could spot her, and instead cadged some food from the guardroom. She needed to go somewhere those three had never been. Thanks to Thranduil's mind-rape, she could now read Sindarin, so she headed for the library. If she was going to go to Mordor, she'd better read up on the place, so she'd have some idea what she was getting herself into. Gondor wasn't even to be considered until she knew whether or not she was knocked up – and she hoped like hell she wasn't. It was easy to forget, since Thranduil could be such a goddamn child, that that he was actually a _king_. The whole marriage thing could be weaseled out of, but her kids would still technically be royalty, albeit royal bastards. Christ only knew what Legolas would make of it – nothing good, she was sure.

If she _was_ up the yard, at least she wasn't likely to have complications. Her mam had had five kids with no problems, and her sister Mairead had four – and that was a bloody relief, because it wasn't like Middle-Earth had anything like modern medical facilities. Cesareans probably weren't an option.

Lorna shook herself. There was no point in thinking about it yet. For now, she had a Mordor to read about.

Like the kitchen, the library was quiet, and she paused to inhale the scent of the books and scrolls. It was dim in here, too, so she lit a candle and went to wander the shelves. She had no idea what system the Elves used to organize their books, so she had no choice but meander and hope to find something.

She didn't find a book, but she _did_ find Arandur, sitting on the floor and writing something on a long piece of parchment. By now he looked none the worse for wear after his night of drunken partying – indeed he was so absorbed in his work that he didn't seem to register her presence until she cleared her throat, at which he jumped and nearly knocked over his candle.

"Lorna," he said. "We were beginning to wonder if you'd died."

She laughed, and sat facing him. "Even with the hangover cure, I spent almost two days wishing I would," she said. "How'd you fare?"

He made a face. "I am no anxious to repeat the experience," he said. "Or rather, the aftermath of the experience. I've never felt so awful in my life."

"Truth be told, neither've I, and I normally have the alcohol tolerance that Time forgot. I only just felt like actually eating something – and before you ask, no, I've not brought food into the library."

"I certainly hope not," Arandur laughed. "Idhrenion would kill us both. Are you looking for something specifically?"

"I need whatever you've got on Mordor," she said. "I can't tell you why until Lady Galadriel gives the go-ahead, and I need you to keep this to yourself, okay? Don't even tell anyone I was asking after it."

Unsurprisingly, Arandur frowned, but the name 'Galadriel' seemed to get him. Nobody, not even Thranduil, would question her much. "It is not pleasant reading," he warned, rising and picking up his candle.

"With a name like 'Mordor', I don't see how it could be," Lorna said dryly, standing to follow him. "Nothing good could be called something so creepy. It sounds a bit like a disease. 'Sorry, patient, I've got bad news: you've got Mordor of the pancreas'."

Arandur snorted, trying to choke back a laugh and failing. "In a way, it is a disease," he aid, lifting the candle to read the spines of a few very fat books. "A stain upon the face of Middle-Earth. It has been there so long I do not think it will ever recover. Here, hold this." He passed her the candle and pulled out a book as thick as her arm. Fittingly, the Tengwar on the spine read _Of Sauron and the Land of Mordor_. There was probably everything she would want to know of the place, and a lot more she wouldn't.

Arandur led her to one of the desks, dropping the tome on it and lighting a few more candles. "If it gives you nightmares, you cannot say I did not warn you."

"Duly noted," Lorna said, pulling up a chair and opening the book. Arandur left her to it, no doubt thinking she'd gone mad.

The book was as dusty as it was huge, and she sneezed three times after she opened it. The Tengwar it was written in was so highly stylized that she actually had a hard time reading it, which made her wonder if it had been compiled by Arsehole or someone like him. It was pretentious handwriting, if writing could be pretentious.

The gist she got from reading about Sauron was that, though he was a big and bad and scary, he was kind of a wannabe – he'd been servant to a bigger bad, Morgoth, who had fortunately been chucked into the Void literally ages ago. This Ring seemed to be some kind of a soul-jar – as long as it lived, Sauron lived, no matter where it was.

The three Elven rings were interesting – and possibly explained why Thranduil was so pissy sometimes. Three Elven rings, three Elven Lords/Ladies, but of that trio, only Thranduil didn't have one. The book didn't say why, but no matter the reason, it had to be a sore spot.

Mordor sounded every bit as nasty as she expected, but not enough to deter her from going. She'd never meant to march through it _alone_, but she wouldn't be alone.

There was one thing she had to do, though, before she could even consider it: she had to figure out how to get her telekinesis properly under control. And she had no idea how to do it.

Galadriel could probably help, but Lorna wasn't going anywhere near her until all traces until her Night of Bad Decisions was gone. Thank bloody God Galadriel couldn't read her mind without risking her own sanity.

* * *

The next week was quiet, but it was the quiet of recovery rather than boredom. Thranduil was grateful for it, but unfortunately, all the peaceful things had to come to an end eventually – on the tenth night from the feast, Galadriel's handmaiden came to tell him that her mistress desired his presence.

It not what he wanted to hear, though it also did not surprise him. The problem was that Lorna would surely be wanted, too, and he did not trust her composure. Truth be told, he did not trust his _own_ composure – he was so unaccustomed to embarrassment that he honestly wasn't sure he could school his own reactions.

The _dreams_ had not been helping. It had been far, far longer for him than it had been for Lorna, and the three times he had slept since then, he'd been plagued by dreams of a sort she'd punch him for, if she knew. He wondered if her sleep had been equally troubled.

At least all of his various bruises had faded, even the appalling one on his neck. Galadriel could not read either of their minds yet for fear of infection; hopefully, they were safe for now.

Still, he was in no good mood, and it grew even fouler when Galion informed him Mithrandir had just arrived. They needed the wizard, and badly, but as ever, he had the _worst_ timing. Thranduil needed to warn Lorna, because if she walked into this unprepared, she'd give the entire thing away in a heartbeat.

Fortunately, he made it to her room before anyone else did. Unfortunately, when she opened the door, he discovered that ten days was not nearly enough time to dispel the awkwardness. She turned scarlet when she saw him, and he was discomfited to feel his own face heat. At least her marks had faded, too, and he saw that someone had finally fitted her with the tunics and trousers she preferred.

"Lady Galadriel requests my presence, and I am sure she will ask for yours as well," he said. "I came to warn you that Mithrandir is here as well. If it is at all possible for you to calm that blush, you must do so."

"You're one to talk," she muttered. "Half a moment." She dug a bottle out of her dresser drawer, and when she uncorked it, the scent of Dorwinion filled the air. She took a sip, swished it around in her mouth, and swallowed before putting the bottle away. "There, I've had a drink. Red face explained."

He had to grudgingly admit it was a good idea. It wouldn't work for him, because he had to drink a very great deal to go red in the face, but at least she had an excuse.

She followed him out into the hallway, and he found himself far too acutely aware of her – and from the way she carefully maintained her distance, he suspected it was mutual. Thranduil was appalled to find that he very much wanted to unravel her braid and run his finger through her hair, which was so surprisingly soft for an Edain, and the silver in it really s lovely.

_Stop it_, he ordered himself. Well, this was mildly horrifying. Wanting to take her to bed when he was drunk was one thing, but even thinking about it while sober was not permissible. He carefully didn't look at her again, and she carefully didn't look at him, and it was almost as awkward as the morning after.

"I'm thinking about giving guitar lessons," she said, mercifully breaking the silence as they ascended along flight of steps, past a rushing waterfall. "And I need to ask Lady Galadriel about getting my telekinesis under control, if I'm going to Mordor or anywhere else."

"You are not going to Mordor," he said, and he could practically _feel_ her rolling her eyes.

"If I'm not you-know-what, I can't go to Gondor, so I'm going to Mordor. We've had this discussion." She still wasn't looking at him, but at least if she was irritated, she wasn't embarrassed. Maybe if he annoyed her enough, no one would guess anything. The bomb he had to drop, as she might put it, would certainly get her temper up.

"If you are not you-know-what, we will simply have to try again," he said casually.

Lorna froze, and he could feel the heat of her glare. "That's not funny."

"It is not a joke. I need your help in Gondor. Therefore, children."

She shook her head, and stomped off ahead of him. Oh, she was angry now – but he wasn't certain he was joking. There could be no second attempt until Galadriel was gone, but Lorna could not go to Mordor, and there really was only one way to stop her. Of course, that would mean he'd need to find some way of convincing her, and _that_ might be impossible.

Her expression was murderous even as she approached Galadriel's door, but she schooled it to something slightly less bloodthirsty before she knocked.

This was not going to be pleasant, but at least it need not prove disastrous.

* * *

How Lorna managed not to strangle Thranduil, she didn't know, but somehow she kept her temper short of outright murder. _Try again_ – was he _insane_? If she _wasn't_ preggers, they would have both dodged a massive bullet.

(She studiously ignored the primal, lizard part of her brain that wouldn't mind trying again _at all_, because as utterly stupid and ill-advised as their drunken shenanigans had been, it had still been bloody _amazing_. Oh, great, now her face could have fried eggs. Whatever, she was pissed off, and anger mad a person red, too.)

To her surprise, it was Geezer who opened the door. She supposed she _shouldn't_ be surprised, since he seemed to be the only one who knew anything about what was meant to happen to this Ring. Still, that was one more person to keep her composure in front of.

"You look ready to rip someone's head off and shit down the hole," he said.

In spite of herself, Lorna burst out laughing. "I'll have to remember that one," she said. "The 'someone' isn't far behind me."

"This is gonna get interesting, isn't it?" he asked, stepping aside to let her through.

"Probably. Hi, Gandalf," she added in Sindarin.

"You look better than last I saw you," the old wizard said. He was sitting in an armchair near the fire, one that had not been here on her last visit.

"Well, I'm not dying anymore, so that's a plus. If you're going to Mordor, I want in."

"You are not going to Mordor," Thranduil said – his first words upon entering the room, in fact.

"Once again, you seem to have forgot the part where you have no say in what I do," she snapped. It would have been fine if she hadn't turned to glare at him, but glare she did, and immediately had to look away and fight to keep the heat from her face. The problem, she thought, with having seen somebody naked was that you _kept_ seeing them naked every time you looked at them. She scowled at the wall before sitting on the floor in front of the fire.

"We do not yet know who is going to Mordor, or when," Gandalf said, placating. "Lorna, will you translate to Geezer? Ask him how Bilbo could have found the One Ring beneath the Misty Mountains, of all places."

Lorna did, and Geezer took the chair opposite him, to Galadriel's left. "It's been a long time since I read the books," he said, "so I can't give you any details, but when Isildur died, the Ring fell off his finger into the river. Some ungodly amount of time later, Gollum fished it out and took it with him when he went to hide in the Misty Mountains. Then you guys went through, Bilbo met Gollum, and the rest is history. Or will be."

Lorna translated that, even while Thranduil said, "I still do not understand how this Tolkien could know not only of our world, but of our future."

"Time travel," Lorna said. "We came to your world, right?" she asked, nodding to Geezer. "Maybe someone from yours came to ours, just from further down the timeline."

"I suppose it is possible," Galadriel said. "I can think of few other explanations, though the mere thought of time travel sits ill with me."

Lorna translated that, too, and Geezer said, "It doesn't thrill me, either, but in this case, it might be a good thing. We might be able to head off the entire War of the Ring before Sauron's strong enough to be a real threat again."

"He is always a threat," Gandalf said.

"Not compared to what he will be. Trust me. He'd be dangerous whenever we tried it, but in that future, you barely succeeded, a lotta people died, and a lot more had their lives ruined. Now, most of the future Fellowship hasn't even been born yet, so whenever you go, you'll need different people. And I want in."

"Me too," Lorna said, after translating all that, before Thranduil could say a word. "Stuff it, Drag Queen Barbie. I can't go to Gondor, but I can't sit here, either."

"Actually, you can," Galadriel said, giving Thranduil a look so stiff with disapproval that he actually, visibly winced. "You must, for the next nine to ten months. Tell me, Thranduil, did you tell Lorna she would be married to you if you went to bed with her?"

He paled, and Lorna buried her face in her hands. "I thought you couldn't read his mind," she said in despair.

"I did not need to," Galadriel said, more gently. "You carry new life within you, and it is tied to him. Did he tell you that you would be wed?"

"No," she groaned, "but we were both drunk. Really, _really_ drunk. How can you tell that I'm pregnant after only ten days?"

"Because I can feel the alien presences within your fëa. Lorna, has Thranduil tried to dishonor you, in refusing to acknowledge you are wed?"

Lorna looked up at her, fully certain her face was actually going to catch fire. "No, that was me," she said. Galadriel's blue, blue eyes were calming, seeming to suck at her very soul. "Where I'm from, it's damn hard to accidentally get married, and if you do, it's declared invalid. Anymore, we don't get married just because somebody gets knocked up, either. Marriages like that almost never end well – the couple usually winds up resenting each other and the kid. My parents got married that way, and the less said about _that_, the better. I'd only feel _dishonored_ if somebody tried to force us to get married when neither'v us wants it. That's just wrong."

Galadriel sighed. "There is no 'getting' married," she said. "Among the Eldar, you are already wed."

Lorna cast an irritated glance at Thranduil, silently telling him he could weigh in any time, but he looked too pained to be of any use. "He said he was already married, so we can't be."

Galadriel shook her head. "There is precedent for it," she said. "My uncle Fëanor's father remarried."

"Yes, and look how _that_ ended," Thranduil said dryly. "And if we are speaking of precedent, Fëanor himself was divorced."

"Really, Lady Galadriel, not marrying is _way_ better than the alternative," Lorna said. "Or at least, not being married, if we can't technically get around it. It's not like we have to _tell_ anyone. Who the father'v these kids is isn't anybody's business but mine."

"Somebody wanna tell me what the fuck's going on?" Geezer demanded.

"Let's just say the whole 'twins' issue isn't an issue anymore," she sighed. "Thranduil knocked me up while we were drunk, but he didn't mention the whole 'sex equals marriage' bit, so as far as I'm concerned, we're not married." She switched back to Sindarin, turning to Galadriel again. "All right, so say we can't weasel our way out – it's not like anything has to change, does it? We can still just keep doing what we're doing, right?"

Galadriel sighed again. "Once it becomes obvious you are with child, refusing to name the father will cause problems. An Elf fathering a child out of wedlock is bad enough, but refusing to be acknowledged for it would be even worse. It would sow suspicion among the ellon, especially among your friends."

Lorna grimaced. "This is going to be so awkward. Isn't this going to cause, like, political problems? I can't imagine saying, 'Sorry, I accidentally married your king' would go over very well." Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Thranduil pinch the bridge of his nose.

"It would, if there were not children involved," Galadriel said seriously. "However, there are. Elves have very few children, and treasure each, no matter how they came about."

"How come you have so few?" Lorna asked. "I mean, I don't think I've seen _any_ here."

"Pregnancy and childbirth are difficult for ellyth. A baby saps our fëa, both during the pregnancy and after. Speaking of which," she added, with a stern look at Thranduil, "she must see a healer immediately. There have been Half-Elven children – my son my marriage is one – but always it is the father who was mortal. I have no idea what carrying an Elven child will do to an Edain woman."

"_What?!_" Lorna rounded on Thranduil. "Did you know that, or was that another thing you neglected to tell me?"

He'd gone pale again – very pale, in fact. "I knew it," he said, "but I did not think it would be a problem."

Lorna threw up her hands. "_Men_," she said. "You're all the same, no matter what species you are. If I die because'v this, I'll haunt you."

"You will not die," Galadriel assured her. "But you also will not go to Mordor. It will be months yet before Mithrandir can bring Bilbo Baggins here. We have time to plan. Geezer is right – someone must go to Mordor, but you cannot be among them. We must fortify your mind, so that when the time comes, you can go with Thranduil to Gondor."

"Can he stay home?" she asked, glaring at him. It had been a while since she had been well and truly furious with him, but she sure as hell was now. There had always been a half playful edge to their mutual antagonism, but that was gone. He didn't mention the marriage thing, he didn't even _think_ about the fact that this might be dangerous for her…he just didn't want to go to Gondor alone, and that was the only thing that mattered. Even now, it was all about him.

"You may need his help," Galadriel said gently, and Lorna looked back at her.

"Lady, if you'll help me with my telekinesis – if you can – I won't _need_ him for anything." She couldn't keep the harshness from her voice, and she felt a vicious, ugly sort of satisfaction when she saw Thranduil flinch out of the corner of her eye. She was done pranking and teasing him – she was done _acknowledging_ him.

Sadness and sympathy lurked in Galadriel's eyes. "I will try. For now, you must see the healers."

"I need a minute," Lorna said. "I need to go for a walk." She rose, and stalked out of the room without a backward glance. While she didn't slam the door behind her, it was a near thing.

* * *

Uh-oh – trouble in what wasn't exactly paradise to begin with. Never fear, Thranduil will figure things out eventually, and Lorna will be such a hormonal mess in not very long that she'll probably forgive him and hit him at the same time.

Title means "Reveal" in Irish.


	35. Dainséar

In which Thranduil admits he dun goofed, Lorna tries to find things she can actually do while pregnant, and bad shit happens.

* * *

Thranduil…had not expected that. At all.

It truly had not occurred to him that none of the peredhel had been born of mortal mothers. Part of him wanted to go after Lorna, though he had no idea what _good_ it could possibly do.

"Somebody wanna tell me what the fuck just happened?" Geezer asked.

"Lorna received some worrying news," he said. "More than that you will have to hear from her, if she will tell it." He pinched the bridge of his nose again.

"I will go to her, once her anger has spent itself," Galadriel said. "She has just cause to be angry, Thranduil. I do not care how deep in your cups you were, if you were coherent enough to make such a plan, you should have known better."

"Lorna needs those twins," he sighed, "and children do not happen spontaneously. She would not have, as she put it, a one-night stand while sober, and I could not fault her for it – I would not be able to, either, nor would any Eldar. In her other world, her might-have-been, they were conceived through force, and were she to venture out into the world without having birthed them first, that might have been her fate here as well. I need her help in Gondor, but I did not want to risk that fate."

"It is logical, but she will still see it as selfish," Galadriel said gently. "I hope you are prepared for mood swings. Edain women are rather more volatile than Eldar when they are with child."

That actually dropped a small ball of lead into his stomach. Lorna was volatile enough already.

"She will also likely suffer greatly from nausea soon, and she is so small that to carry twins will be a great trial to her. It would be a danger even if the father was also Edain."

"Well, she obviously survived it when the father _was_ Edain. You are the finest healer out of all still left in Middle-Earth; if you would consent to stay throughout her confinement, it would be of benefit to her."

"I have little choice," she said. "Do not tax her, Thranduil, if you can at all avoid it. She has friends here, though you have put her in an unfortunate position. Should she find someone who takes her heart, she cannot marry, and _that_ she would resent you for."

The mere thought sent a surge of something hot and ugly through him, and he realized with dismay that it was _jealousy_. Where had _that_ come from? He did not know, but he did not like it.

"I must see to her," Galadriel said. "Think on what I have told you." She rose, and left him with Geezer, Gandalf, and a rather unwelcome revelation.

* * *

Lorna didn't want to admit it, but she was scared shitless. It had never occurred to her that interspecies pregnancy could be dangerous, though now she wondered why it hadn't. It was a relief to know that Elves and humans _could_ successfully interbreed, even if the parents' species had always been flipped around before.

Her first pregnancy, while it lasted, also hadn't been any fun at all, and she imagined it would only be worse with a half-alien baby. _Two_ half-alien babies.

And Christ, how was she to explain this to the healers? As much as she'd love to make Thranduil look like a shit, that would have consequences for more than just him. Destabilizing the monarchy of the Woodland Realm would not do anyone any favors, no matter how pissed off she was. But at the same time, she wasn't going to pretend this was the result of actual forethought – for one, she was a rotten liar, and for two, she didn't want to. She might not intentionally make things worse for Thranduil, but she wasn't about to make them easier, either.

She sat on one of the high bridges, looking down at a stream that meandered through the floor. How long she sat, stewing in her own anger, she didn't know, but eventually her silent aggravation was interrupted by Galadriel.

"We must go see the healers, Lorna," she said gently, holding out a pale hand.

Lorna took it, and stood. "What in God's bloody name am I to tell them?" she asked. "'Oh, your King sent me up the yard and didn't bother telling me we're married now'?"

Galadriel smiled. "While it would be amusing to see the reaction to that, you ought to allow me to do the talking. You must focus on being well, for I will not lie to you – this will not be pleasant. Are these your first children?"

"Yes and no," Lorna said, letting Galadriel lead her by the hand like a child herself. "I was pregnant before, but I lost the baby. That pregnancy wasn't any fun, but it wasn't unendurable, either."

"We will do what we can, to give you comfort with this one."

Lorna sure as hell hoped it worked. She was glad she at least didn't have to tell Galasríniel and the other healers that she'd had a drunken one-night stand with their King and got herself knocked up. She really didn't want to know what _they_ would make of it.

But she trusted Galadriel, and so followed her to the healing wards without _too_ much trepidation. If Galadriel could tell she was pregnant, how many others would as well? _That_ was a slightly mortifying thought.

The wards were, as always, rather empty, and Galadriel led her to a private room. She hopped up onto the bed, unaccustomedly nervous, swinging her feet and wishing she'd never gone to that feast.

When Galasríniel came in with Galadriel, she looked badly startled, and rather worried. At least, when she spoke, it wasn't to ask how the hell this had come about to begin with. She laid a hand on Lorna's abdomen, shutting her eyes in concentration.

"Lorna, I will tell you now that I can make no promise you will carry both these children to term, but I will try my utmost to help you do so." She paused, and then said, carefully, "Lady Galadriel says there is some dispute about your marriage."

"As far as I'm concerned, there _is_ no marriage," Lorna said, exasperated almost beyond endurance. "As I keep telling _everyone_, it might be your custom, but it's not mine. If you have to say it's marriage, fine, but nobody better be asking me to actually act like Thranduil's wife. If I see him again any time soon, I'll jam my boot so far up his arse he'll taste leather for a week.

Galasríniel looked completely scandalized, but Galadriel laughed. "A warning I do not think he needs, but I will give it to him anyway. For now, we must begin brewing you cordials, so that your body will not attempt to rid itself of the babies."

Lorna felt the blood drain from her face. "That's a possibility?"

"I am afraid so," Galasríniel said.

Well, that was horrifying. One miscarriage was enough, thank you very much. "So what do I do?"

"For a start, you rest," Galadriel said. "No running, no lifting, no sparring, and no use of your telekinesis. We do not yet know what that will do to your body."

"Can I still at least give guitar lessons?" Lorna asked, a little plaintively. "If I don't do _something_, I'll go spare in a month."

"Yes, you can do that," Galadriel said, "for as long as you have enough of a lap to hold the instrument."

Lorna shuddered. She hadn't been far enough in her last pregnancy to have more than a minor bump when she lost it, but she remembered that when her Mam was pregnant with Mick, she hadn't been able to see her own feet by month seven. Weirdly, the only time her da had ever acted like a decent human being was when Mam was pregnant. It wasn't just that he stopped hitting her – he'd actually stay home from the pub and do things around the house. Of course it didn't last long after the kid in question was actually _born_, but apparently the desire to take care of a pregnant woman was hardwired into the human species. "I'll get it in while I can, then. Can I at least keep my room?"

"For now. In a few months we will need to move you nearer the healing wards, for safety. Meanwhile, do not strain yourself, and no more wine."

"_That_ I already knew. I just…what do I do now?" Lorna asked. "I mean, right now?" Though she was in a cavern filled with people, she felt very alone, because seriously, who the hell could she tell this to and have them actually understand?

Galadriel gave her a gentle smile. "Bring that instrument you call a guitar, and play us another song. _Without_ straining yourself."

* * *

Gondor saw little more in the way of snow, but the bitter cold continued.

Day by day, Von Ratched's influence spread, but it was not enough to keep his interest on its own. Unwilling to often endure the crowds of people (and the armpits that came with them), he attempted to put together as close to a modern laboratory as he could.

It was not easy. He had as yet found no natural gas deposits – but even if he had, there was no way to bottle it. After making a thorough study of the minds of several blacksmiths, he helped himself to some of their equipment and supplies, and set about crafting himself a full set of surgical tools, spending the long dark evenings polishing and sharpening them. Laid out in a row on a long piece of black velvet, they glittered in the firelight, looking refreshingly modern amid such a medieval setting. He'd begun carving molds for glass beakers, but there was only one glassmaker currently living in Minas Tirith – it meant that he only had one source to study, which he rather disliked. One should never rely on a single source of information, but in this he had no choice. Lacking natural gas, he would need to build clockwork steam engines to craft his weapons.

The Elves would come. Whether in six months or six years, they would come for him, and shatter his plans to lay low until the time of Sauron, but he would be ready. Superior fighting ability counted for nothing against a bomb or a bazooka – what he made would by necessity be primitive, no less effective for it.

If they couldn't get near him, they couldn't affect his mind – most of them, anyway. Galadriel was still a very big problem, but he had at least another three months to figure out how to deal with her.

Once Lorna had explained her objective to the musicians, they were happy to duplicate the instrument she insisted on calling a guitar, even though it wasn't quite.

She set up shop in the guardroom, it being the only place A.) big enough, B.) with fewest distractions, unlike, say, the training hall, and C.) where Thranduil wasn't likely to frequent. She was still supremely pissed at him, and likely would be for some time yet.

Initially, she hadn't been sure how many people would show up, but a surprising number did – Faelon and Menelwen; Arandur; Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri, and Galasríniel, who Lorna suspected was only there to make certain she didn't strain herself. Eight musicians sat around and behind her, half of whose names she didn't know, watching her with an avid curiosity that bordered on creepy.

The light in here was usually strong, but she'd added even more lamps, so that everyone could see clearly what they were doing. Elves had unnaturally keen eyesight, but she had no idea how good (or bad) the vision of the three humans might be. She'd always thought her own was pretty keen, but then she'd met Elves.

She strummed her not-quite-guitar – being an Elvish instrument, it was of course perfectly in tune, so she could probably skip tuning lessons. "All right, even you musicians have probably never played like this, so pay attention. These are your frets. Memorize their numbers, for they are your friends." She repeated that in English, pointing. She'd marked each with an actual number, mostly for the benefit of the humans, so they wouldn't have to be forever silently counting. "Do you all see the little triangle of metal next to your chairs? That's a pick. While you can play with your fingers, doing that with a steel-string is a great way to make your fingers bleed. Your left hand's probably going to be sore anyway. Okay, watch my hands carefully."

Again, she repeated that in English, and launched into a very slow version of _Hotel California_, exaggerating her fretwork. The Elves, no doubt, would pick up on it almost immediately, and she hoped they wouldn't inadvertently be jerks and make the humans feel inferior. Lorna had a natural affinity for the instrument, but it had taken a solid year of daily practice before she could tackle songs like _Crazy on You_. The Elves, being Elves, would probably have it under control in a week. So far, it seemed the only thing they couldn't learn with relative ease was Irish. She was oddly proud that her second native tongue was so difficult that even Elves struggled with it.

The musicians, sure enough, mimicked the frets almost perfectly, though they stumbled a little over the strings. Guards and humans started off at the same level, thank God, so she moved among them, correcting and needed and very carefully not touching anyone – Galasríniel only felt her two buns in the oven after touching her.

She felt a prickling on the back of her neck, as though she were being watched, and out of the corner of her eye she saw Thranduil lurking in the shadows outside the doorway.

Her eyes narrowed, and she fought a scowl. She couldn't yell at him in front of everyone, which was probably why he had chosen to observe her near a crowd. Whatever. She'd just ignore him.

"You've almost got it, Faelon," she said in English, figuring he could use the practice, "you're not whacking a dummy with a sword. Keep that up and you'll snap a string, and believe me, it's no fun at all to get hit in the face with one. I know a bloke who damn near lost an eye that way."

"What?!" Katje demanded, her hands stilling.

"You're not playing near hard enough to worry about that. He was high on I don't even know what. Whatever it was, the doctors at the A&amp;E were surprised he was _alive_."

Dammit, she could still feel Thranduil watching her like a creep. If he kept that up, she'd give out at him, audience or no. What the hell was he even doing all the way down here? Had he seriously turned up just to annoy her? That was petty even for him.

_He wants a reaction_, she thought. _Don't give him one._ The problem was that restraint had never been her strong point, and she wound up grinding her teeth.

"Katje, you've almost got it, but that buzzing happens because you're not pressing hard enough on the bar chords."

"Funny, I usually get told I press too hard on things," she said, which made Geezer snort and Ratiri burst out laughing.

"Obviously I'm missing something," Lorna said.

"Katje's a call girl and part-time dominatrix," Ratiri said.

"_Was_," Geezer added. "She needs a new job."

"Hush, old man," Katje said. "My old one was fine. I like disciplining people."

Lorna tried to laugh. She really did, but in the end, she couldn't help it. "I don't know where in Middle-Earth you'd have cause to do _that_, but there's got to be somewhere." God, but it was nice to talk to _humans_. She might never really be one of their tiny circle, but maybe she could attach herself to the outside of it.

She eyed Geezer's hands, which were so much improved she'd never have guessed they'd been such a mass of scars. "Geezer, you've got the opposite problem – you'll slice your fingers open if you keep on pressing so hard."

See, she could do that. Ignoring Thranduil entirely might not be possible, but at least she did need to react. _Suck it, Drag Queen Barbie._

* * *

She slept well that night, at least initially. At some point, her usual jumble of dreams took on an unnatural clarity, and she was again chucked headlong into what might have been.

_This one was much nicer than the last had been. There was a long, low house in the mountains, seated in a meadow ringed with fir trees. It was high summer, the air hot and dry, drawing out the scent of fir and freshly-mowed grass, as well as the heady aroma of a trellis of roses beside the sliding-glass door of the kitchen. The kitchen itself was rather large, the countertops polished granite, the cabinets dark cherry wood. It was even nicer than Mairead's, and it was_ hers_._

_It was also, at the moment, rather crowded. Katje and Geezer were there, as well as a black man she knew instinctively to be Gerald, Katje's husband. Ratiri was trying to stir something on the stove and hold a small girl of maybe two at the same time – a girl who looked almost identical to Lorna as a child, tiny and dark-skinned and black-haired. Another child, a boy, was attempting to scale Geezer like a monkey on a tree. A box fan in the doorway to the living-room tried and failed to alleviate the heat, but Lorna loved that heat, because uncomfortable as it was, this was her_ home –

She woke with tears on her face, hot and salty, and immediately tried to blame them on hormones. She also felt distinctly nauseous, but it was _way_ too early for that.

Early or not, she barely made it to the toilet – such as it was – before sicking up everything she'd had for dinner. That process repeated twice before her nausea faded to bearable levels, and then she had to pour herself some water to rinse her mouth out. She hadn't even been up the yard a full month, so why was she sick to her stomach?

_Alien babies_, she thought, struggling to her washbasin to pour more water and wash her sweat-sticky face. Who know what would be too soon or too late? Not her, that was for certain.

Only now did she register streaks of dampness on her thighs, and cold dread seized her heart even before she looked down and saw bloodstains on her nightgown.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Lorna staggered back into the bedroom and hunted down her dressing-gown, before she made her way into the corridor. Arandur had the room next to hers, and she prayed he was in as she pounded on his door.

No such luck. Christ, could she make it to the healing wards before…well, before? She had to try. Weirdly, there were no cramps, as there had been with her first miscarriage – just blood. Did that mean this _wasn't_ a miscarriage? If not, what _was_ it?

She had to pause to sick up again, and dizziness gripped her so strongly she nearly fell.

"Lorna?" Faelon, wide-eyed, grabbed her shoulders.

"Healing wards," she said. "_Now_."

Fortunately, he didn't ask any questions – just picked her up like a child, practically running down the corridor and up the steps. It was a damn good thing he'd come along, because she was so dizzy she probably couldn't have even crawled. While her consciousness didn't precisely fade, she grew less aware of her surroundings.

_What might have been is important._ The thought came out of nowhere, and disappeared into the ether just as quickly. Her mind was churning so badly that she wasn't even aware at first that they'd reached the healing wards.

Alarmed voices came from several directions, but she didn't have the energy to even turn her head to see who they belonged to. Faelon passed her to Galasríniel, who hauled her into an exam room. Lorna dimly heard her demand that somebody fetch Lady Galadriel, but her consciousness was fading fast, dragging her back into the dream of what ought to have been her life.

* * *

Galadriel had feared this, but she had not thought it would happen so soon, and had hoped the cordials would stave it off. Lorna's body was rejecting the babes before they were even fully formed, sensing that they were something alien, and Galadriel was not entirely sure she could save them. The Eldar who had borne half-Edain children had bodies and wombs far more resilient – peredhel babies had been easy by comparison. Lorna's mortal womb saw these two as a threat, and it was not necessarily wrong. One peredhel would be taxing enough, but two might be too much to bear.

Mercifully, Lorna's consciousness had deserted her, though that too was a worry, for she had lost so much blood her face was grey with it. She was so very still stretched out on the table, and the fact that Edain slept with their eyes closed always did make them look dead.

But she breathed still, and Galasríniel rubbed a soothing oil of athelas onto her forehead and temples, trying to encourage her body to relax and fight its instincts.

Galadriel laid her hands on Lorna's abdomen, still flat and taut with muscle, chanting under her breath. The tiny, unformed souls, which felt very much Eldar, were frightened, and she tried to soothe them as she worked.

Eventually the bleeding stopped, and they quieted. Lorna stayed asleep even when Galasríniel cleaned her up and dressed her in fresh nightclothes, carrying her carefully into a recovery room.

What had happened? Why now? Galadriel did not know, and she could not search Lorna's mind for the answer. Thranduil could, but she would never allow it – not yet. Her anger at him needed time to cool.

One thing was certain – she did not look forward to telling Thranduil of this development. His temper did not perturb her, though it terrified his subjects. No, it was the fear he did not wish to see, and she knew that she would, because he did care about Lorna, in his own odd way.

"Send for me, if she wakes," she told Galasríniel, "but I do not think that she will for some time yet."

"Yes, my Lady," Galasríniel said.

Galadriel rose, and let the healing wards like a ghost. There was no way this would be pleasant, but it had to be done.

* * *

Of course, Thranduil thought, someone would have to disturb him on one of the rare nights he actually planned to sleep.

He was in no good mood already. Strangely, he'd found he missed having Lorna snark at him, so he'd gone to find her, fully expecting that she would. To his surprise, he was to be disappointed; she actually managed to ignore him. She must be even angrier than he'd thought – not that he could precisely _blame_ her, either.

But of course he could not be allowed to drink away his irritation and sleep. Someone had to dare come knocking on his door – if they didn't have a damn good excuse, they'd pay for it.

When he opened the door, however, he found that it was Galadriel – a Galadriel who looked very grave indeed.

"You must come with me," she said.

"Why?" he demanded.

Her damnably deep blue eyes held his steadily. "There is something wrong with Lorna. She is very angry with you right now, but that might be to our benefit."

"What is it you need?" he asked, following her when she turned away.

"Something is causing her body to reject the children," she said. "I cannot safely read her mind to discover what it is, but you can. Yes, she will be infuriated with you, but if she is infuriated, her fëa is more tightly bound to her hröa. She is physically too strong to die, but if allowed, her mind will wander and never return."

_That_ was a dreadful thought. Irritating though Lorna might be, Thranduil would not lose her – not yet. Ever in the back of his mind was the knowledge that losing her was inevitable someday, for she was all too mortal. She would die, and never again would she tease him, or harmlessly destroy his clothes, or tell him off when she thought he needed taking down a notch or two. No one else, not even Legolas, dared to that. Unlike the rest of his people, she was not in awe of him, and she had not feared him since she first left for Dale weeks ago.

And one day she would die. There would never be another Lorna Donovan, this tiny, aggravating Edain with the unearthly green eyes that even now unsettled him. She and all she was would be lost forever, gone wherever the fëa of Edain went after death.

But not today. She and her mind and her fëa were staying right here.

* * *

Aaand here you have the biggest reason Thranduil doesn't want to admit, even to himself, just how fond of Lorna he really is. He thinks that if he doesn't get too close, it won't hurt so much when she dies. Silly Thranduil, it's a bit late for that.

Title means "Peril" in Irish

As always, reviews are love. They let me know if I'm still on the right track or not.


	36. Cad ba Chóir a Bheith

In which Lorna and Thranduil get bad news for Middle-Earth, she discovers a little more of what might have been her life, and they both attempt to deal with the whole 'pregnancy' nonsense.

This chapter rates a brief gore-warning, I think.

* * *

_Lorna stood in the middle of a storm that looked ready to tear the world apart._

_She was on the lawn of the home that should have been hers, buffeted by a warm wind that crept through her jeans and T-shirt. Even the grass was warm beneath her feet, and soft as velvet._

_Though it was only mid-afternoon, the sky was nearly dark as night, clouds black and bruise-purple swirling in a great slow dance, veined with forks of lightning. The light was some sickly parody of dusk, and the moan of the wind in the trees was like the sound of some tortured animal. Her hair, half loose from its braid, tangled around her like a shroud._

_Her gaze dropped from the sky to the treeline, and she froze. Facing her, some seven yards away, was a young woman looked frighteningly like her – the same features, the same black hair and green eyes – except that this woman was dead, and horribly so. Blood streaked her bare arms, her ragged, blue-grey dress was soaked with it, her eyes filled with it, leaking at the corners._

_Stark terror filled Lorna, and she nearly screamed when a hand descended on her left shoulder. She rounded to punch its owner, and discovered that owner was Thranduil._

_For once, she wasn't completely annoyed by the sight of him, because it meant she wasn't stuck facing that creepy zombie-her alone._

_"__What is she?" Thranduil asked, tensing._

_"__I have no bloody idea," Lorna muttered. "Another might-have-been."_

_The zombie woman – Aelis, her name was Aelis, though Lorna could not have said how she knew that – cocked her head to one side, a disturbingly human intelligence in her bloody eyes. "What might have been, but what still might be," she said, nearly frightening the life out of Lorna. In her other dreams, she had been an observer only, unacknowledged by any around her. There had been the one with eyeless Von Ratched, but she was pretty sure that was a garden-variety nightmare._

_"__What d'you mean?" she asked, shivering in spite of the wind's heat._

_"__You do not know it, Lorna Donovan, but you were meant to be one of several catalysts who would change the face of the world. You, Von Ratched, your children, and Sharley, who you would not have met for some time. As you are not here, that change will follow, in time. _I _will follow, and all my kind with me. I wish we could aid you with the problem of Sauron, but it will be seven years until we may arrive._

_"__I will tell you both this," she said, her bloody gaze wandering to Thranduil. "Sauron may be the worst of the threats you will face, but he will not be the only one. And should you not defeat him before my former husband arrives, he will gain a very powerful ally. Thorvald wishes dominion, but he is no fool – he will not challenge a being of superior power."_

_"__Who the hell is Thorvald?" Lorna asked. "Is he dead like you?"_

_"__Yes," Aelis said, "and no. Come – there is something I must show you."_

_Lorna really, _really _didn't want to, but her feet moved forward without her will. For once she was still glad of Thranduil's presence – though a glance up at him told her that he too was deeply disturbed._

_"__I will not let anything harm you," he said._

_"__I'm not sure that's a promise you can keep," she said, and there was no rancor in it – it was a simple statement of fact. This might be beyond both of them._

_"__Where are you taking us?" she asked Aelis._

_"To show you." The words were barely audible, nearly completely borne away on the wind. "To show you what was, and what may be, if you do not take great care."_

_They walked for what seemed hours, though in reality it could not have been more than twenty minutes, during which time Lorna did not dare speak more. The trees sighed all around her, the air whirling with pine needles that floated and danced like diving insects in the gloom. Every few seconds lightning would illuminate the forest floor, strobing in an uneven pattern that made her dizzy. At last they reached the treeline and stopped, facing a low hill, an outcropping of rock crowned only by moss and red fireweed._

_"Watch," the woman said, "and do not look away."_

_There were people on the hill, and at the sight of them all the breath seemed to leave Lorna's lungs. She tried to gasp and failed, her eyes widening as her dizziness increased._

_This woman, this strange and terrible woman who was her and yet not, was up there as well, lying so still she might well be dead. But no - even from this distance Lorna could see she was breathing, though barely. No blood was splashed on her arms or face; they were white and unmarred, though her eyes were as red and glazed as those of her counterpart beside Lorna. Other bodies lay around her, and most of them were quite definitely dead - save for one, a small creature who lay beside the dying woman, its eyes fever-bright and bloody. And - and here it felt as though something solid had hit Lorna in the chest - two of those corpses were children, twins who resembled the woman as much as her own resembled her, tossed aside like broken dolls._

_Her eyes traveled upward, to a tall dark figure cloaked in black, a blood-smeared knife in its hands. Recognition did not come immediately, but when it did Lorna sank to her knees, her legs unable or unwilling to support her further._

_The man was young - little older than the woman - but he was as like Von Ratched as the woman was like Lorna, a resemblance that was uncanny if not exact. His hair was longer, blonde instead of silver-grey, but she would know those horrible pale eyes anywhere._

_He lifted the not-Lorna, drawing her away from her small dying companion, and laid her at the very top of the hill. She watched him with a kind of exhausted fear, a fear that was too worn to be to be terror - a fear that turned to pale revulsion as he knelt over her. She tried to turn her face away as he bent to kiss her, but his hand caught her chin with a gentleness wholly at odds with the carnage around them._

_And even that revulsion faded as he sat up again, her fever-glazed eyes clearing as she watched unblinking his raising of the knife. Here Lorna tried to avert her own eyes, but her guide knelt and caught her chin even as not-Von Ratched had caught her own on the hill, forcing Lorna to watch as the knife plunged down into her counterpart's chest._

_The woman screamed, and Lorna tried to, but no sound would leave her throat. Blood washed over the man's hand - not bright blood, such as stood in the woman's eyes, but the dark blood of a mortal wound to the heart. Here the man looked up, but Lorna didn't see what he looked at - her will broke and she turned away. She fought a horrible urge to be sick. Only Thranduil's hand, now clamped on her shoulder like a vice, kept her from fleeing entirely._

_"No more," she whispered, the words hardly more than a breath. "Sure God, have you not shown me enough?"_

_The woman touched her face again, but she shut her eyes hard. "The circle has almost closed," not-Lorna said. "It happened once, and its seeks now to repeat itself, even in another world. You must take great care to ensure it does not."_

_Now Lorna did open her eyes. "How?" she asked. "For Christ's sake, how do I stop it?"_

_"That I cannot tell you," Aelis said. "You must divine it for yourself - you must succeed where I failed. Thorvald sleeps yet, but he will wake in eight years. It should have been by Von Ratched's hand – I do not know how it will be done now, but done it will be. If you do not destroy Sauron before then, you may not get the chance."_

_Lorna, numb with horror, could not speak, but Thranduil asked, "Are _we _to gain any allies, aside from you?"_

_Aelis smiled, revealing teeth that were as bloody as the rest of her. "All of my kind will join you, when the time is right," she said, "and Sharley, though she may not be able to linger long. She fears the damage her presence may do to you world."_

_Because _that _wasn't ominous or anything. "How many'v you are there?" Lorna asked, and Aelis's answer made her choke on her own spit._

_"__Some two million. You will need us against Thorvald, even if you do destroy Sauron before he arrives."_

_"__Two_ million_?" Thranduil demanded. Lorna had never heard him sound truly incredulous before, but he certainly did now, and she didn't blame him. The thought of two million zombies, even helpful ones, was almost incomprehensible. "That is more than the entire population of Gondor!"_

_"__I did tell you there were eight billion people in my world," Lorna said, looking up at him. She could take no satisfaction in his shock, because he looked rather ill, his already pale face even whiter._

_"__Yes, but you did not tell me that two million of them were wights," he said._

_"__I am not a _wight_," Aelis said, visibly offended. "We are revenants, who have slept these last thousand years, waiting for vengeance against the one who killed us. _Wight._" She shook her head, an action that made her seem jarringly human. "I can show you no more for now. Your wizard must fetch the hobbit, as soon as he is able. Lorna, do not lose those children."_

_"__Not sure I have much choice in that," she said, trying to process all she'd just been told. And here she'd thought Von Ratched would be her biggest problem. Just what sort of hell would her life have been, in that other universe? She'd had a home and family, but it sounded like it would have been a nightmare trying to protect both._

_"__You have more than you might think," Aelis said. "And you," she added, pointing at Thranduil, "you have greatly upset history, but as this is all happening in your world, that may be for the best. Take care of her, and Lorna – let him. The strength of your body is not equal to that of your spirit, and that is quite apart from the children you carry."_

_Lorna's natural instinct was to say 'hell no', but she was stubborn, not stupid. The fact that she hated needing help didn't change the fact that she _did_ need it, so she'd best suck it up and deal with it. However much she really didn't want to. "Okay," she said grudgingly._

_"__You sound so thrilled," Thranduil said dryly, though his voice was also not quite steady – he was still clearly disturbed by what they'd just witnessed. At least Lorna wasn't alone in that._

_"__Not gonna lie," she said. "I still sort'v want to hit you for getting me into this mess to begin with."_

_"__Not until Galadriel gives you leave to exert yourself," he said. "Then you may hit at will."_

_"__Good to know."_

_Aelis shook her head. It was difficult to read her expression under all that blood, but she seemed a little exasperated. "This may yet work," she said. "I hope so, anyway. Wake now, for a while. Lorna, you need to eat, whether you like it or not."_

_Lorna _didn't _like it, but she knew it was necessary anyway. "I'll try," she said, "though I can't promise I'll keep it down."_

_"__Again, Galadriel," Thranduil said. "Come, Dilthen Ettelëa. I have seen too much already, and I am certain you have as well."_

_"__That's for bloody sure," Lorna muttered, and woke._

* * *

Lorna's eyes were still closed when Thranduil came back to himself, but she was not asleep. She reached up to rub her forehead, eyebrows drawn together as she frowned. Her face was still far too pale, but she no longer looked as though she waited at Mandos's door.

Thranduil had seen and endured many terrible things in his life, some far worse than the violent death of Aelis, but it nevertheless shook him. Somehow, seeing Lorna's world through his own eyes, however briefly, was quite different than seeing it through hers.

"Fuck my life," she muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose, still not opening her eyes. "Were you really there for all of that?"

"Unfortunately," he said. "Your alternative timeline does not look like a comfortable place to live."

She snorted. "That would be putting it mildly." Only now did she open her eyes, and her gaze was weary in a sense beyond physical. "Gandalf has got to go get Bilbo. How far off is spring in the south?"

"Another month," Thranduil said grimly. "If that woman spoke true, we need not worry her former husband will turn up on our doorstep tomorrow."

"Aelis," Lorna said. "Her name is Aelis – don't ask me how I know it, but I do. And her ex looks creepily like Von Ratched."

Thranduil sighed. "Of course he does. I wish she had told us more of him."

"Kinda glad she didn't," Lorna said, rubbing her right hand over her face. "I don't need any more nightmares. I feel shitty enough as it is."

"You certainly do not look well," he said, and smirked a little when she glared. "I will have Galasríniel send for some broth. Anything more substantial might not, as you put it, stay down."

"Probably not," she said morosely. "I wish I could sleep without seeing any more of what could have happened. That was nasty, but there've been good things, too, that I'll not have here. I had my own home, the nicest place I'd've ever lived in on Earth, on a mountain with my children and family and a load've friends I'll never be so close to, here. Middle-Earth is beautiful and I'm glad I came here, but you've seen how different it is from Earth – I'm homesick for a home I've never had, and how screwed-up is _that_?"

Thranduil did not really know what to say to that. What _could _he say? She was right – this world was not hers, though he had hope that it would become so, in time. He could no longer deny how fond of her he was, but he was not Ratiri, nor any Edain. He did not know that he could give her what she needed, even were she willing to take it from him.

"It is not, as you put it, screwed-up," he said at last. "The course of your life has been altered, and what you would have had has been taken from you. Anyone would mourn for that."

Lorna looked at him. "You know, you're all right, when you're not deliberately being a bag'v dicks," she said. "Guess my kids could do worse for a da."

It was as close to a compliment as she was probably capable of. "Yes, they could have," he said. "Much worse, in your alternate life. Much has been taken from you, but some things you have been spared."

She shivered. "True. Do half-Elf children live forever, or do they die like humans?"

"They are given a choice," he said, rising. "They can choose to live the eternal life o an Eldar, or to die and leave the world as Edain do." He went to the door, and ordered a passing healer to bring a bowl of broth. "When they are of age – though I do not know what that age is; I would have to ask Elrond – they will be given the choice."

"Blimey, that's a hell'v a decision," Lorna said, picking at a tangle in her hair, which really was atrocious. It was no wonder she always kept it braided.

"Stay here," he ordered, and went to fetch a comb from the closet that always seemed to be filled with such things. When he returned, Lorna arched an eyebrow.

"That bad, huh? Give it here."

"No," Thranduil said. "Roll and face away from me, and give me your hair, before it becomes unsalvageable."

"You're weird," she said, but did as asked. Disentangling her hair from around her took some awkward angling, but once they'd managed it, he set to work with the comb, starting at the very ends.

"Mam used to brush my hair," she said, as he teased at a particularly stubborn snarl.

"I know," he said. "My mother brushed mine. Legolas's mother died when he was very young, so I combed his."

"I know."

It was easy for Thranduil to forget that Lorna had many of his memories, as he had hers. It was rather disconcerting, because he was unsure that two people were meant to know one another so well. He hoped that she had not acquired knowledge of the significance of this act – she hadn't known that going to bed with an Elf meant marriage, so it was possible.

The question was, why had _he _not thought of it? Was he really simply so set on getting his own way? He already knew the answer, and he didn't like it.

He couldn't really blame Lorna for refusing the fact that they were wed. It was not the way of her people, and she had not known what she was getting herself into beforehand, but he suspected it was more even than that.

She had loved her husband with a fierceness he would have not thought an Edain capable of. Though her marriage had been inconceivably brief to him, she held it sacrosanct – to her, to replace it with something not only loveless but _accidental_, would be akin to sacrilege.

If he was not such a selfish bastard, he would have allowed things to take their course with Ratiri, but even the thought made that unwanted jealousy twist his gut. It was entirely unfair – he did not love Lorna, though he was far more fond of her than he wanted to admit, even to himself. She deserved an actual husband, but he did not want to be parted from her. Yes, he was selfish, but it was far too late to do anything about it now.

He worked at another knot, her hair slipping like water through his fingers. Never had he met an Edain with truly silver hair before, but the strands mixed in with the black shone in the firelight. Would their children have her hair, or his? Green eyes or blue, pale skin or dark? He strongly doubted they would be as small as her, for even few Edain were as little as Lorna. That might make birth difficult for her.

They would be Legolas's siblings, too – Legolas, who would have to be told of this eventually. _That _was not a conversation Thranduil looked forward to.

By the time he'd finished combing her hair, the broth arrived, but she was fast asleep again. He set it beside the fire to keep warm, then sat with his hand on her back, so that he could reassure himself that her heart still beat.

* * *

So, this is total headcanon, but I think that Elf-spouses would brush each other's hair. Thranduil might not be any more thrilled about the idea of accidental marriage than Lorna, but at least he's willing to man up and deal with the responsibility he's inadvertently taken on. Lorna's going to be a tad harder to convince, and not just because she is shortly going to feel utterly awful and want to strangle him.

As ever, reviews are the stuff of dreams.

Title means "What should have been" in Irish.


	37. Na Marbh ag Siúl

In which Lorna discovers that pregnancy with half-Elf babies sucks especially badly, Faelon and Menelwen find something disturbing in the woods, and poor Legolas is still left in the dark.

* * *

The next few weeks were an utter misery to Lorna.

She was almost constantly nauseated, often sicking up both broth and water almost as soon as they'd gone down. It only abated when she slept, which she did as much as she could.

Thranduil, to his credit, didn't leave her to suffer alone, though she often raged at him for getting her into this mess in the first place. This was so very much worse than her first pregnancy, and it had to be because this time the kids were half alien. She felt no guilt over sicking up on _him_, which she did, several times.

"I hate you," she said, rinsing her mouth out with water yet again. "I hate you _so much._"

"I know," he said, rubbing circles on her back. "But the sickness will pass, in time."

"How d'you know?" she demanded, before losing what was left of her breakfast. "No human's ever had Elf babies, remember? I could well be like this the next eight months."

He said nothing to that, because there was nothing he _could_ say. For all anyone knew, she might be right.

Faelon obviously knew of her pregnancy, and he told Arandur and Menelwen, but she'd ordered all of them not to let anyone else in on it. Soon enough she wouldn't be able to hide it, but she'd keep it her secret as long as she could.

She crawled back up onto her bed, vaguely wishing she was dead. A bath sounded nice, but she had no energy at all to take one, and she wasn't so far gone that she was willing to ask Galasríniel or someone for help.

"You need to eat something," Thranduil said, pulling her blanket up over her shoulders.

"Not right now, I don't," she retorted. "It would just come right back up, and I've had enough'v _that_ for one day. Sure God I can't go through another eight months'v this."

"It might be nine," he said helpfully. "Elven pregnancies usually last for ten months."

Lorna shut her eyes, burying her face in her pillow. "Thranduil, you are not helping. At all."

"Sooner or later the healers will find a cordial to stop your sickness.

"I wish I could believe that," she groaned, curling into a ball. "I really, really do. At this point, I don't dare hope for anything."

"Why not?" he asked, again rubbing circles against her back. It was vaguely soothing.

"He who hopes for nothing will never be disappointed," she said. "Can't remember who said that, but it's true."

"It is also appalling. I will speak to the healers."

"Good luck," she grumbled.

* * *

Thranduil was growing worried. Even an Elf could not survive forever if they could not keep food in their stomach long enough for it to do any good. Lorna was losing weight she could ill afford to lose normally, let alone when she was with child. Children.

The healers were rather at a loss. They tried cordial after cordial, but none of them stayed down long enough to be of any use. Lorna's already sharp features were turning skeletal, and while she had not yet had another bout of bleeding, if she kept on like this, it was only a matter of time.

Terrible though it was, part of him almost hoped she would lose these children, because as it stood, they were killing her. If this was what happened to an Edain woman tried to carry Eldar babes, it was just as well it had never been tried before. Had Caranthir and Haleth wed – and from all Thranduil had heard, there had been some manner of feeling there – she might never have led her people on to Estolad.

He went to Galadriel, who was brewing yet another cordial that he feared would be just as useless as the rest. Even she was worried, though one would never have known it to look at her – her pale face was serene as ever. It lurked in her eyes, however, even as she stirred her concoction in a glass bowl.

"Has she eaten?" she asked, not looking up from her work.

"She has tried." Thranduil sat heavily in a chair beside the fire. "Again, she has failed."

"I think that failure lies not only with the cordials," Galadriel said. "We must trick her body into not rejecting them before they can be of any use."

"And how are we to do _that_?" he demanded.

"Distract her. Her fear of losing it all immediately must be only making it worse. Galasríniel and I will help her bathe, and she will sip very slowly. Once it has taken effect, it is my hope that subsequent draughts will be easier. Such sickness does not normally last among Edain women, but in this we cannot be sure it will not."

Were this anything like a normal marriage, he'd be the one giving the bath, but it was _not_ normal, and thus would likely be uncomfortable at best, and mortifying at worst. "If it fails, tell me," he said. "If it works, tell me. I must see to something." There was nothing to be seen to, and he knew Galadriel would know it; what he really needed was a drink.

* * *

Though the depths of winter were now past, still the snow fell. Patrols became more monotonous than ever, because nothing, not even the giant spiders, could move through such drifts. So Faelon was inwardly surprised to find, one frigid, pale morning, an Edain child sitting halfway up a tree. A _wight_ Edain child.

She was very young, and very tiny, with long, white-blonde hair and milky eyes. Her clothing was much the same as Lorna's had been upon her arrival, little trousers and a short-sleeved shirt wholly inadequate for the cold – not that _this_ child could have felt cold.

She watched him, and he watched her. His weapons were not equal to wights, as they were not exactly common in this part of Middle-Earth (not that they were _common_ anywhere); quite frankly, he had no idea what to do, since she didn't look likely to attack him.

"Hi," the little girl said, giving him a small wave. "You're pretty."

Well. _That_ was unexpected. While he had heard that wights could speak, he couldn't imagine one telling someone they were pretty – and she spoke English. Were there wights in Lorna's world? If so, she'd certainly never said anything of them. "Do you have a name, child?"

"Marty," she said. "I lost my mama."

Eru, what sort of mother could a child like this have? "Was she in the forest with you?" he asked carefully.

The little girl shook her head, her hair whipping her in the face. "Nah. Mama Tanya and all my brothers and sisters're in the Other, and _Mama_ Mama's on Earth. Which I'm pretty sure this isn't, 'cause you've got pointy ears, and nobody on Earth does."

It took Faelon a moment to work all that out through the child's accent, which was not like that of _any_ of the other Edain. "This is Middle-Earth," he said, and wondered what he should do_ now._ Leaving her here seemed wrong, but what if she was dangerous? Oh, she didn't look it, but she was still a wight of some sort.

Fortunately, Menelwen came up beside him, saving him the decision. She must have been watching their odd little interaction. "We must bring her," she said in Sindarin. "At least if we take her to the halls, we know where she _is_. And perhaps one of the Edain will know what she is, and what to do about her."

"She is a _wight_," Faelon said. "That is rather obvious."

"She is not like any wight I ever heard tell of," Menelwen retorted. "Do you sense any malice from her?"

"No," he admitted. "But she is a dead creature that speaks. You cannot tell me that is natural."

"Perhaps it is not natural for Middle-Earth," she pointed out, "but she is not _from_ Middle-Earth. We must take her with us."

"Very well," he sighed, "but I do not relish the thought of carrying her. Come, child," he said in English. "You must come with us."

The little girl jumped down from the tree, and to his surprise, she landed as lightly as any Elf. It was something of a relief to see that her tiny bare feet actually left tracks. "Where are we going?" She seemed remarkably unperturbed by finding herself in a strange world, but then, she was already dead – what was the worst that could happen to her?

"To my lord's halls," he said, and then, feeling more was needed, "there are other humans there."

"Cool," she said, and padded along beside him.

What in Eru's name had he actually found?

* * *

Much as Lorna hated needing help with a bath, need it she did. As per Galadriel's instructions, she sipped the latest cordial while Galasríniel washed her hair, soaking in the recessed tub like a posh lady in a spa. The hot water did feel wonderful, at least.

She looked down at her stomach, which was still flat. At her size, with twins, she'd have the baby bump from hell. Hey, maybe she'd know what it was to have actual boobs for once in her life – she never had graduated out of training bras. Would her bellybutton poke out like some sort of weird growth? She'd heard of that happening. God, she wished she could talk to a human woman who had had a kid. Somehow, she doubted Elven pregnancies were the messy, uncomfortable things humans went through. Elves were too poised and graceful for that sort of thing.

"Galasríniel, can you cut off a little of my hair?" she asked, sipping.

"Why in Eru's name would you want that?" the healer asked, scrubbing at her scalp.

"Because it's too long even for me. Just get it back up to my bum.'

"No. Your hair is too lovely to cut. Tilt your head back and shut your eyes."

Lorna sipped again, and did, carefully holding her glass out of the way. "Oh, come on, Galasríniel," she said, as warm water poured over her hair, "it's ridiculous. I'll start tripping over it soon."

"And when that happens, _then_ I will cut it. Maybe. Now sip, and keep your eyes closed."

Lorna did, and more water ran down her scalp. "You're impossible."

"I believe your people having a saying about pots and kettles."

"We do," Lorna said, opening her eyes and looking up at Galasríniel, "but how did you know about it?"

The healer looked guilty, which was quite odd in an Elf. "I've been spending time with Ratiri," she said, "and learning English from him. Medicine in your world is fascinating." She paused. "I hope this will not upset you."

Truth be told, Lorna was. Quite a bit, in fact, and more than a little jealous. "I suppose I've no right to be," she sighed. "After all, I'm _married._" The vitriol she infused into the word was beyond description.

Galasríniel winced. "Why do you object to that so?"

Lorna scowled, and sipped her cordial. "Because where I'm from, the prime ingredient in marriage is love, or should be. Thranduil's a lot less irritating than he was, but we don't love each other, and I'm stuck. I can't find anyone I _do_ love – and if I ever did, I can't do anything about it. Not right now, anyway." No, she wasn't bitter. Of course not.

Awkward silence followed that, because it wasn't as though there was anything Galasríniel could really say to that. Lorna had figured for years that she'd never marry again, because she'd never love anybody like she'd loved Liam, and now she was stuck in this farce. And she couldn't help but resent it.

She kept sipping while Galasríniel finished with her hair, now quite moody. Not that that was anything new lately. What she'd be like when the hormones _really_ kicked in, she didn't know, and didn't want to.

The cordial was gone by the time Galasríniel was finished with her hair, and she bundled up well once she was out of the tub. Warm though the wards were, anymore she almost always felt too cold.

When they reached her room, she shooed Galasríniel away, preferring to come out her hair herself.

She had no right to be jealous, she told herself, as she combed and took in the fire's warmth. Yes, she'd married Ratiri in another universe, another timeline, but they'd been different people. In this here and now, he might always fear her to some extent, simply because of what she was – whatever Von Ratched had done to him, it had to have been utterly horrible. Fear was a poor basis for friendship, let alone a marriage. Honestly, it was even worse than a drunken one-night stand.

Well, she'd have children, at least. Though what on Earth manner of mother would she be? Her own mam had died when Lorna was fourteen, and she'd often been too broken to do all a mother should. What if she totally bolloxed it up?

There was no point worrying about it yet. She'd have plenty of time for _that_ later.

Menelwen burst into her room, scattering her thoughts. "Lorna, we've found something in the forest," she said urgently. Her eyes were wide, and Lorna had no doubt that if she'd been human, she'd be out of breath.

"Found what?" Lorna asked, setting aside her comb.

"A child. A wight of some sort, but she does not seem to mean any harm. Nor does she seem at all concerned at finding herself in a completely different world."

A wight – could she be one of Aelis's people, brought in a little early? Lorna couldn't think of any other reason. She stuffed her feet into a pair of slippers, and followed Menelwen. Thank blood Christ this cordial appeared to be working so far – she didn't particularly want to spew all over Menelwen's back.

"Where are you going?" Galasríniel asked, appearing from apparently nowhere. Lorna never had got used to just how suddenly there could be an Elf where there was no Elf moments before.

"Menelwen found a zombie," she said. "A little girl zombie. I need to see it."

"Her," Menelwen said. "She gives her name as Marty Corwin, daughter of Sharley."

Sharley…Lorna knew that name. Aelis had mentioned her, but hadn't said anything about her zombie kid. What the fuck? "Menelwen, I can't go fast enough," she said. "I need to get up on your back." By this point, she'd lost all sense of dignity – she was pretty sure she'd sicked it up along with everything else.

Menelwen knelt so she could clamber on, and then she clung like a monkey, praying the cordial would keep working. Blowing her groceries all over Menelwen's head would be even worse than sicking up on her back.

They passed a great many incredibly confused Elves, all of whom wanted explanations, and none of them actually got one. Word of Marty's arrival must have traveled fast, but further information obviously hadn't been forthcoming.

Both Lorna and Menelwen ignored them as they made their way to what turned out to be one of Thranduil's council chambers – just how many of those did he actually _need_? Of course he was there, as well as Galadriel and Legolas, with Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri clustered at the far end of the table with Faelon and Arandur.

Marty sat on top of the table, and even though she was a zombie, she was just about the cutest thing Lorna had ever seen. Yes, her skin was grey, the tracery of blue veins beneath it quite visible, and yes her eyes were milky, but she was still goddamn adorable. Unfortunately, it seemed that Lorna was the only one who thought so.

Menelwen set her down, and she made her slipper-shuffling way over to the little girl, ignoring everyone else.

"And how long'v you been here, allanah?" she asked.

Marty blinked at her. Beneath their film of death, her eyes did not match – both were mostly dark brown, but the left had an uneven section of blue and an even more uneven bit of green, while half the right was a brown so light it was nearly amber. "Since last night," she said, and though her voice was high and sweet, there was a gravelly quality to it, too. "You're Lorna, right? I think I'm s'posed to find you and him." She pointed at Thranduil. 'He's really tall. As tall as Granddad."

"Yes, he is very tall," Lorna said, climbing up onto the table to sit with the little girl. "Stupidly so. Did you come here on purpose, Marty, or did you just find yourself halfway up a tree?"

"Tree," Marty said, hugging her knees. "It was big. _Everything_ here is big."

"It's not a great place to be small in. At least now I'm not alone."

"Why must you find us, Marty?" Thranduil asked. "Did Aelis speak of us?"

Marty turned her dead eyes to him. "No, Mama did," she said. "She said if I ever did come here, I had to find you and stay with you until everybody else shows up."

That would have sounded a lot more ominous if Lorna hadn't been expecting it. She looked at Thranduil, who didn't look at all thrilled, and at the humans. Geezer looked curious; Katje, dubious; and Ratiri was visibly creeped out. Not that she could blame him for it – if she hadn't seen the much more horrifying Aelis first, she might be, too.

"What does she say?" Legolas and Lorna let Thranduil answer.

"That she has been sent to stay with us," he said, looking at Marty. "And she creates something of a complication."

Lorna didn't need to wonder what he meant by that. She doubted many of the Elves were going to be happy having a zombie running around their halls – even a benevolent one.

"Kid, you can't be from Earth," Geezer said, assessing her closely.

Marty shook her head. "The Other," she said. "It's kinda connected to Earth. There's lots like me there, and lots not like me."

Lorna just knew that they were all going to want to question the girl, which would take ages. "Marty, allanah, can I have a look at your mind? Can you show me the Other?"

"Lorna," Thranduil warned.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Thranduil, she's already dead. It's not like I can infect her like I did you."

"And what if she infects you?" he demanded.

"With _what_?"

He waved a hand. "I don't know…something."

"Eloquent, but unconvincing." She looked back at Marty. "What d'you say, allanah? Will you show me your home?"

After a moment, the girl nodded.

* * *

Caranthir and Haleth are from _The Silmarillion_ \- Haleth was the daughter of a chief whose people were besieged by orcs, who killed her father and her brother. She held the survivors together for days afterward, and then Caranthir and his army turned up and helped. The idea that there was anything between the two is total headcanon, but it's mine, my precious. (Seriously, Haleth was so badass that her people, who had once called themselves the Haladan, started calling themselves the People of Haleth.)

Title means "The Walking Dead" in Irish.

As ever, reviews feed my hungry, hungry soul.


	38. Míchompord

In which Arandur naturally thinks Marty is the most fascinating thing ever, Lorna learns a bit about the Other, and Thranduil has a _very_ uncomfortable discussion with Legolas.

* * *

_No, Lorna thought, the Other was most definitely not Earth._

_The sky was a dark, dull red, peppered with charcoal and russet clouds, and no visible sun. The air was drier than anything she'd ever experienced, even when she was tooling around in the American Southwest in her van, and it tasted weirdly metallic. So far as Marty knew, it hadn't rained in four hundred years._

_She and those she called her brothers and sisters all lived in the only place in the entire damn world to still have above-ground moisture – called the Swamp, it was exactly what the name suggested, hot and humid and surprisingly filled with life, considering how many zombies it contained. So much of it was sucking mud and deceptively deep water that there was only one path actually on the ground – the rest were worryingly rickety-looking walkways built between towering sycamore trees._

_And good frigging grief, was it full of zombies. This Mama Tanya, who Marty believed to be some kind of minor deity, would take the dead children she found while walking outside the Swamp and resurrect them, always adding to her family. The Other was a dangerous place for mortal humans; her supply of children never dwindled. Why it was only ever kids, Marty didn't know, and so neither did Lorna._

_Tanya lived on the one patch of true dry ground in the Swamp, right at its very center. Several huts with moss roofs stood in the clearing, circling a massive fire-pit. She looked to be no more than seventeen, small and pale, with short, wispy hair dyed red and orange and yellow, with a blue left eye and a right green. If she really was some manner of god, she sure as hell didn't look like one – and form Marty's memories, she was also often stoned._

_Marty's grandmother – foster-grandmother – rode the skies in a vast airship, rather like an old-fashioned pirate ship, but much, much bigger. God, wouldn't that be useful – they could just sail right over the top of Mordor and chucked the Ring right into Mount Doom. Marty's mother had grown up on it, surfing the clouds and patrolling for the Other's various airborne monsters._

_"I can't show you any more yet, Lady," Marty's voice told her. "Mama says there's more you'll see later, when more of us come here."_

Lorna blinked, returning to her own mind – and immediately had to fall off the table and run to the fireplace, where she sicked up the cordial and everything else she'd tried to eat. Dammit

She felt a hand on her back, too large to belong to anyone but Thranduil. "I had hoped this would work," he said, gathering back her hair in case she had to be sick again. Thankfully, she didn't, which was something of a first. Never yet had she only puked just once.

"Is she sick?" Marty asked, hopping to the floor and padding over to them.

"In a manner of speaking," Thranduil said quietly, and Lorna was grateful that Legolas spoke little English. "She is pregnant." She wondered if such a very young child would even know the meaning of the word.

She must have, for she winced. "Mama said she was sick the whole time with me."

"Not helping, kid," Lorna croaked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve.

"I will get you some water," he said. "Do not move."

"Wasn't planning to."

* * *

Thranduil exchanged a sober glance with Galadriel. He doubted the humans would have heard him, although they might have heard Marty, and be able to extrapolate from there.

"What's wrong with her?" Ratiri asked. "I'm a doctor – maybe I can help."

Fortunately for him, there was nothing but concern in his voice. Nevertheless, Thranduil fought an urge to grind his teeth. This jealousy might disturb him, but so far, there was no getting rid of it.

"You cannot aid her in this," he said, helping Lorna to her feet and watching her carefully for signs of further sickness. Mercifully, the color was coming back to her face. "Let's get you back to the healing wards."

"Can I come?" Marty asked.

"Of course you can, allanah," Lorna said, before he could speak. "Though I don't know that there's much to play with."

"I'll find something."

Thranduil was certain she would – he wasn't, however, certain that anyone else would like it. He followed Lorna closely, ready to catch her should she fall, but she seemed steady enough on her feet.

Galadriel followed him, and to his irritation, everybody else followed her. Faelon, Menelwen, and Arandur he could somewhat understand, since they all knew of her condition, but he didn't know why Legolas and the three Edain had come along.

"Deas a fhios ag mo breoite chomh suimiúil," Lorna muttered. _Nice to know my vomit's so interesting._

"Tá cuid acu atá i gceist," he said. "Na daoine eile, dar liom, ach aisteach." _Some of them are concerned. The others, I think, are only curious._

"Níl mé anchúinse seó taobh." _I'm not a side-show freak._ She shuffled her way along, so slowly that he wanted to just picked her up and carry her, but he was quite sure she'd kick him in the head if he tried.

It rather aggrieved him, that she was so adamant in her refusal to let him take care of her as a husband ought to. He understood why, but it still irked him – she only accepted his aid when she had no other choice, or when she didn't realize he was giving it. She remained bitter about the whole thing, which to him made no sense; from all he knew of her memories, she was normally far more pragmatic. He did not doubt she would get there in the end, but he had no idea how long it would take.

He could feel Legolas's eyes on the back of his head, and knew he could not delay _that_ conversation much longer. Legolas was no fool, and while Thranduil doubted he would guess the full truth (simply because it was so ludicrous), he would guess enough.

"You don't all need to hover like you think I'll drop dead," Lorna grumbled in Sindarin.

"I rather think we do," he retorted. "If you do not move faster, I will carry you."

"I'll barf on you," she warned. "Don't even think about it."

"You are too stubborn for your own good," Menelwen said, working her way to the head of the line and picking Lorna up. "If there are many Edain in your world like you, I have to wonder how it has survived."

Lorna glared at her, but made no effort to get down. Fortunately for Menelwen, she did not look at all green in the face. "I hate you all," she said. "Well, most'v you. I've got no quarrel with Lady Galadriel or Legolas."

_Not yet_, Thranduil thought. Once he'd had this discussion with his son, she might have a very great quarrel with Legolas, depending on how he reacted.

Eventually they got her back to her room, and he abandoned her to the mercy of the small crowd, pulling Legolas aside. "We need to talk, _ionneg_," he said wearily. "You will not enjoy this conversation, but it must be had."

"Lady Galadriel told me you would say that, sooner or later." Understandably, he was very obviously curious.

"This will require wine," Thranduil said grimly. "Possibly large quantities of it."

They left the healing wards, passing through (and ignoring) a number of inquisitive bystanders. They would all find out about Marty in due course, he was sure.

They made their way to his study, where he stoked the fire, lit several lamps, and brought out his finest Dorwinion.

Legolas accepted a glass, and sat on the edge of the desk. "You are very mysterious, Adar," he said.

"With good reason," Thranduil said, pouring himself a glass. There really was no softening this blow. "The night of the feast, I got hideously drunk and accidentally married Lorna."

Legolas choked on his wine. "You did _what_?" he demanded, coughing.

Thranduil sighed. "The night of the feast, Lorna stole into my rooms with the intent of wrecking my wardrobe – do not ask." He explained, yet again, her need for the twins, and how she would have acquired the min her own world. "So I, in my infinite drunken wisdom, decided to…rectify the problem."

Legolas looked beyond pained, his eyes still wide, a dribble of wine on his tunic. "Did she know of our customs?" he asked, taking a very large draught off his cup.

"No," Thranduil sighed. "She has made it very clear that so far as she is concerned, we are not married. In all fairness, but the customs of her people, we truly _are_ not."

"And she is now with child?" Legolas didn't wince, but Thranduil was fairly certain he wanted to.

"Yes."

Legolas shook his head. "Adar…I do not even _know_ what to say. You are lucky the Valar have no smote you for having two wives. What in Eru's name will you tell Naneth, when you see her again?"

"I do not know. Unlike Finwë, I will not be a bigamist forever, which is possibly why no one has interceded." Truth be told, he did not know if he would ever see his wife again, unless she lingered in the Halls of Mandos. Like as not he would sooner or later die in Middle-Earth, and after _this_ fiasco, it was unlikely Mandos would release him until the end of the world.

"You dishonor Naneth's memory, Adar," Legolas said, draining his glass and holding it out for more.

"I know," Thranduil said, refilling it, "but I would bring dishonor on myself and Lorna if I did not accept my role as husband, no matter what she thinks or how much she resents me."

"Is she properly aware that her children will be royalty?"

Thranduil snorted. "They would only truly be royalty if I crowned her, which I believe she would murder me for. Do not bring that, or anything like it, up to her. If she was to truly think about it, she might just run. And for Eru's sake, don't remind her that she is technically your stepmother."

Legolas's expression was so horrified that Thranduil almost laughed. The entire situation was so absurd that it all but demanded laughter.

"Well," he said at last, "I always wanted siblings, but _this_ is not precisely how I would have wished it."

Now Thranduil _did_ laugh, though he sobered again almost immediately. "I cannot yet be certain that you will. Lorna's time is not progressing easily. I did not take into account that an Edain woman has never borne half-Elven children."

"It sounds like there is a very great deal you failed to take into account," Legolas said, though there was little censure in his voice.

"In that, unfortunately, you are very right. I only hope it does not cost her too much." The cordial worked longer than the others – with luck, they would find the right combination before any permanent damage was done to her – or the babies.

"Adar, you do realize you are going to be a _father_ again, do you not? Tauriel has not been a child for over six hundred years. You are out of practice."

Truth be told, he had not until recently thought Lorna would want him to act as her children's father. Oh, she had talked of a 'baby daddy', which still disturbed him, but he had not known if she meant it. Now, though…Legolas had been enough of a handful, and he was an only child. The thought of _twins_, especially if one or both in some measure inherited their mother's temperament, made him groan.

Legolas laughed, and Thranduil gave him a baleful stare. "You need not be so amused, _ionneg_. Among the Edain of Lorna's world and ours, the eldest sibling will often look after the younger when the parents are busy."

_That_ shut him up, and left him looking rather worried.

* * *

Lorna was not at all surprised that Arandur was the one most fascinated by Marty.

The entire blasted crowd of them had wanted to stick around, but Galadriel shooed most of the way. Lorna asked her to let Arandur stay, however, because watching him with Marty was just about the most adorable damn thing she'd ever seen.

She crawled back into her bed, relieved to be able to lay down again. The one bout of vomiting seemed to be it – while her stomach wasn't happy, she didn't think it would declare mutiny any time soon. Snuggling down under her blankets, warm and _clean_, felt glorious. Both mattress and pillow were cloud-soft, her nightgown/dress was a fine flannel that smelled like lavender, and for the first time in weeks, she didn't feel like she wanted to die.

Marty sat at the foot of the bed, patiently letting Arandur poke and prod her, and ask endless questions. The little girl seemed rather bemused by it all.

"How is it that you can speak if you do not breathe?" he asked, mostly in English. Lorna translated the rest.

"I can breathe when I _want_ to," Marty replied, swinging her feet. "We all can."

"But how do you avoid decay?"

She shrugged. "Dunno. Mama Tanya probably does." She grinned, revealing teeth that were surprisingly white for a zombie. "We're indestructible, too," she said, sounding proud she knew such a big word.

"What do you mean?" Arandur asked eagerly.

Marty looked around. Lorna's room didn't have a whole lot in the way of sharp things, but she hopped off the bed and grabbed the fireplace poker, lifting it surprisingly easily for so small a girl. "Try to stab me," she said, handing it to Arandur.

"What? No!" he said, horrified, dropping the poker as though it were a live snake.

She rolled her milky eyes, grabbing it and shoving it back into his hand. "I'm _dead_," she said. "It's not like you can kill me."

"But – can you feel pain?"

"Nope. Now stab me."

He still didn't look like he wanted to, so she guided his hand up and threw herself onto the poker.

Well, _against_ the poker. It didn't penetrate her chest at all, though Arandur was at first too busy panicking to notice.

"Allanah, how does that work?" Lorna asked, hoping her voice would snap him out of it.

Another shrug. "Mama Tanya knows, but I don't think she's ever told anyone else. She calls it a trade secret."

"That's one hell'v a secret," Lorna said. "Arandur, breathe. You've not harmed her."

"Are you – are you _all_ like that?" he asked, visibly struggling for equanimity.

"Yep," Marty said, hopping back up onto the bed. "We kinda have to be, 'cause the Other's dangerous even if you're dead."

Lorna wondered if they were immune to telepathy. If so, she'd love to take an army of them against Von Ratched. His expression would not doubt be utterly priceless. Aelis had said her people would not arrive or another seven years, but clearly Marty belonged to a different group of zombies; who knew how many would turn up before then?

She just needed to get through this damn pregnancy. Once she had, they'd probably have enough plans for what to do with an army of child-zombies. The possibilities were damn near endless.

* * *

The next weeks saw Arandur and Marty everywhere, the latter joyfully frightening each new person she came across. Dead she might be, but she was very much a child, with every bit of a child's mischievousness. Although, when Arandur asked her how long she'd been dead, he was shocked to find that she was over twenty years older than Lorna. It would appear that being physically frozen at the age of five kept her mentally a child as well.

She liked to climb absolutely everything, up to and including the antlers mounted behind the King's throne. Fortunately for everyone, he was oddly indulgent with her, and it didn't take Arandur long to figure out why: he was practicing. Assuming Lorna carried her children to term, he would be a father again comparatively soon.

Her pregnancy was still not common knowledge, at her insistence – she had an odd but unbreakable fear that she would miscarry if too many people found out, and there was nothing to do but humor her. Though the healers had sorted out her nausea, she was still having more than a little difficulty.

Now that she could eat again, she was having some truly bizarre cravings, so Arandur, Marty, and Katje had taken over a space in the kitchen, ignoring the bustle around them. The cooks were too busy to spare them more than a few curious glances.

Lorna's latest craving was for ice cream, which Arandur had never heard of. Fortunately, Katje actually knew how to make it, and it needed few ingredients, all of which they actually had. (The previous craving was for pickles and barbecue sauce; the former was easy enough, but nobody had successfully made whatever barbecue sauce actually was.)

"Milk, cream, vanilla, and sugar," she ordered, which were easily assembled, along with a saucepan.

"We will have to put it outside to freeze," she said, pouring a cup of cream into the saucepan. "Then find a way to get it to the healing wards before it melts. You people need to invent freezers."

"They kinda need electricity for that," Marty pointed out, measuring sugar into another cup.

"True. No ice cream in summer for you then. Sugar," she said, and Arandur handed over the cup.

"How do you know how to make this?" he asked.

"My grandmother teach me. She and my grandfather raised me, and they teach me many things." She added the sugar, then set the saucepan on the stove, stirring slowly with one hand as she poured a cup of milk with the other. "Not having ice cream machine will make this hard, but we will figure it out."

"Of course you have a machine for that," Arandur sighed. "Your people have a machine for everything."

Katje burst out laughing, and he had no idea why. Evidently Marty didn't either, for she gave him a bewildered look, then climbed up onto the counter next to the stove. "What's so funny?"

"You are too young to know," Katje said, still stirring. "We do have machines for _everything._ Not everyone is like Elves, Arandur," she said, giving him a rather disturbing smirk. "Humans have…needs. Sometimes we use, let us say, small machines to take care of them."

It took a moment to work out just what that meant, and when he had, Arandur's face practically caught fire. Katje laughed again, and Marty made a face.

"Gross. Grown-ups are _so gross_," she said, hopping down off the counter and scooting away in disgust.

"You…you really have…for _that_?" Arandur said, just barely managing not to sputter.

"You have no idea, you sheltered, sheltered boy," she said, with a crooked, somewhat salacious grin. "And if you were not Elf, I would educate you."

"Your people are…very strange to me," he managed.

"Well, they are not _all_ like me," she said, still stirring. "We are not _all_ like anything. What some find fun or acceptable, others do not. Sometimes it is religion or culture, sometimes just personal. The only things you find humans all share are things like breathing. Otherwise, all are different. We look different, we behave different, we act different. Which may be problem not just for you, but for Middle-Earth."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"We often cannot predict each other," she said, taking out the spoon and inspecting the consistency of the liquid. "You cannot predict us at all. Our minds, our ways, are not like the ones even of humans here. Von Ratched is not only evil person on Earth. More might come, and maybe they bring gun or tank with them. Geezer would say whoever they meet is F.U.B.A.R."

"What does _that_ mean?" If it was a curse, Lorna had never mentioned it.

"He say it is Army word that mean 'fucked up beyond all repair'."

Arandur made note of that. Lorna would appreciate it. "Our King knows much of your world," he said, "but there must be more all of you could teach him. You may have to, in time."

"_That_ I do not look forward to. Your king is creepy. Pretty, but creepy."

* * *

Though Lorna's nausea was no longer an issue, she slept as often as she was allowed. The healers made her get up and walk sometimes, so that she would not lose all her muscle, and remained adamant no matter how much she complained. And complain she did, quite frequently.

She was still in her first trimester, but she already had a noticeable bump, and she dreaded what it would be like by the end. Maybe she'd explode, like a seagull that ate a Mentos candy. The bump made everything seem much more real, and it left her secretly terrified.

Like it or not, she was a very small woman, and she was carrying twins. Given how stupidly tall Thranduil was, they might well wind up big babies, and what if they were too big for her to actually give birth to? It happened, more often than she liked to think about, and the Elves, for all their advanced healing, probably weren't capable of surgery – and even if they were, she doubted any of them would know how to give a C-section to a human.

It was a thought that haunted her through all her hormonal ups and downs, and it was especially bad today, as she sat on her bed and sniffled while eating pickles straight out of a very large jar. When someone knocked on her door, she all but threw the jar at it.

"Go away," she snapped. "I'll walk later."

"You do not sound well." Oh, great. Thranduil. Just what she needed right now.

"I'm pregnant, jackass. I haven't felt _well_ in two frigging months. _Go. Away_."

The problem with having a King for a baby-daddy was that he wasn't used to doing as he was told. He just barged on in anyway, and Lorna _did_ throw the jar, though it was automatic reflex rather than conscious intent. Of course he caught it with his stupid Elvish reflexes, but at least he got pickle juice on his fancy robe.

His expression made her burst out laughing even as she kept sniffling, cursing her leaking eyes. "Told you go to away," she said.

"That you did," he said ruefully, setting the jar aside. "Galasríniel says you have been isolating yourself."

"Galasríniel needs to keep her damn mouth shut," she grumbled. "I don't want to see anyone, and trust me, they're not gonna want to see me."

Thranduil set the jar on her end-table, and to her mounting irritation, came and sat beside her. She wiped her eyes, scowling at her feet, wondering how much longer she'd actually be able to see them.

"I'm freaked out, okay?" she said. "I was so scared I'd lose them that I never really thought until now what'll happen if I _don't_."

"Nothing will happen to you, Lorna," he said, and she didn't resist when he wrapped an arm around her. "Galadriel is here. She will not allow you to come to harm."

"Can she give me a C-section if I need it?" Lorna asked. "Somehow I doubt it."

"She will not need to," he said, sounding so certain that she really wanted to believe it. "You need a distraction."

Lorna looked up at him. "I've had loads'v distractions," she said. "Arandur brings me books, and I get visitors whether I want them or not," she added pointedly.

He arched an eyebrow. "Nice try. Come with me."

"Where?"

"Somewhere you can walk without being bothered. It is late – there are few who would see you. If you still insist on keeping this pregnancy a secret, put on an extra robe."

In spite of herself, she was curious. "This had better be worth it," she said. "My back already hurts if I walk too much, and it's only a matter'v time before I start waddling." She eased herself off the bed and grabbed her dark green dressing-gown, stuffing her feet into her slippers.

"It will be," he promised, and shooed her out the door. Amazingly, he actually walked slowly enough to accommodate her much shorter stride, which had only been rendered slower by the swelling of her abdomen.

"What're we going to call them?" she asked, as they made their way through the silent wards. "Do Elves have any sort'v system for naming their kids?"

"Some do," he said, "but not always. How do your people do it?"

"Depends," she said, rubbing the small of her back with her left hand. "Sometimes we name them after friends or family, or famous people. Sometimes we pick something with a certain meaning. Others just choose something they like the sound of. Most'v us have a first name and a middle name, so we could do one'v each, Elvish and human."

"We do not, as a rule, name our children before they are born, and it is always the mother who chooses," he said, leading her out into the corridors. It had been over month now since she'd left the wards, and doing so now felt damn weird. "Elven mothers usually have some manner of foresight into the sort of person a child will become, and name them accordingly."

Lorna snorted. "Humans usually aren't so grand at foresight," she said. "If we were, we might not have half so many problems." She paused. "If one'v them's a girl, I'd like to call her Saoirse. It was my mam's name, and it means 'freedom'. Good thing to wish on a kid."

"And hopefully prophetic. Turn here." There was a branching corridor to the right that she'd never explored, nor had she seen anyone else go in it. It led to a door with a very large lock, and Thranduil produced an equally large key. "No one is allowed pas this," he said. "None save Legolas, and I do not think he has come this way in many years."

"Where does it go?" she asked.

"You shall see."

Of course, the dust had to make her sneeze almost immediately. "You're being annoyingly mysterious."

"It will not annoy you forever. Keep going." He sounded amused, but not smug, which was something of a first.

It was pretty damn obvious nobody had been down here in ages: it wasn't just the dust, it was the cobwebs. They weren't huge, like the webs in the forest, but they still gave her the creeps.

"Christ, does this hallway never end?" she asked, halting and rubbing at her back again. "I've not walked this much in weeks."

He paused, and okay, there was the smirk. She'd known it would make a return sooner or later. "Kick me and I'll drop you," he said.

"Wait – shit!" She almost _did_ kick him when he picked her up, and not because she meant to. Her center of gravity had shifted so much that she was certain she'd fall, whether Thranduil dropped her or not. "You are so lucky I'm not sicking up all my food anymore."

"I know," he said dryly. "You completely wrecked my silver robe. I never did get the stain out."

Lorna laughed. "Given what I'd eaten, I'm not surprised." She eyed the cobwebs overhead. "How many spiders are in here?"

"Not many. They will not eat you," he promised, setting off again.

"Of course they won't. I'll throw you at them." There was no rancor in the threat, although she wasn't entirely sure she wasn't serious. She just didn't do arachnids.

"In that case, I will endeavor not to get eaten," he said solemnly. "Shut your eyes."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Must you question everything? It is a surprise."

"Yes I must, and surprises make me nervous. They're never anything good."

"Well, this one is, so shut your eyes or I will blindfold you with your own hair."

Lorna blinked. "_How?_" she asked, genuinely curious.

Thranduil rolled his eyes. He actually, truly rolled his eyes. Lorna felt rather accomplished. "I would wrap it around your head and smother you. Now will you _please_ close your eyes?"

"Since you asked so nicely," she said, and did. "This better not involve spiders."

* * *

Don't worry, Lorna, you will actually like this surprise.

As ever, reviews are the stuff of life.

Title means "Discomfort" in Irish


	39. Eagla

Okay, so the chapter I initially wrote (and actually briefly posted last night) was _much_ darker, because I got bad news yesterday and was in a very dark place when I wrote it. This is not meant to be an overly heavy fic, however, so revisions were made.

* * *

The surprise did not, in fact, involve spiders. It truly _was_ a surprise, too, because Lorna hadn't thought Thranduil had it in him to be so thoughtful.

One of the other books her mam had read them when she was a child was _The Secret Garden._ What she found, when she opened her eyes, was something very like what she'd imagined Mary's garden to be.

The walls were covered in climbing roses, somehow blooming even in the middle of winter, their blossoms white as the snow outside. The ground was not grassy, but covered in thyme and blue star creeper, which bore so many flowers that the blue all but obscured the green.

A little creek wound through it, and beside it stood a massive curly willow with a hanging swing. A patch of violas and black-eyed susans sat beneath it, the purple and yellow bold contrast against the paler flowers. Petunias of all shades ran riot along the creek's edge, along with sword ferns and some small, pink daisy-looking flowers. Four large lilac bushes ran along the far bank, their fragrance overpowering in the most wonderful way. Though moonlight came in through a fissure in the roof, it didn't bring any cold with it.

"What is this place?" she asked, as he set her down. "How is this all blooming right now?"

Thranduil didn't answer right away, and when Lorna looked up at him, she found that he looked both sad and somewhat awkward. "It was my wife's," he said. "She loved flowers, and the enchantments she laid upon her garden have never faded."

Okay, wow, that was both _really_ awkward and rather touching. Lorna was genuinely floored that he would share this with her, and since she had all the eloquence of a brick, she didn't know what to say.

"You've kept it up yourself, haven't you?" she asked at last. "You'd have to have, or it would've overgrown itself ages ago."

"I have," he said, and it sounded like he was admitting to some great sin. "I do not know why, as so few see it now. She used to hold parties here, for her favorite people."

"A garden's a good place for children," she said, feeling like she was stepping through an emotional minefield. "It won't be empty and quiet much longer, if you don't want it to be."

"What matters is whether or not _you_ want it to be," he said, looking down at her. "Anameleth would not want me to have it shut away for so long. She used to tell me that a garden has a mind of its own, and that it must be tended as much as its trees and flowers."

"My gran says something like that," Lorna said, "but Christ, Thranduil, I don't feel right, just taking over your wife's garden like that. It's bloody beautiful, but it feels…well, a little like stealing."

"It will not," he said seriously. "Not once you know it, and it knows you."

She kicked off her slippers so she could feel the cool thyme beneath her feet. How the hell could he just _give_ her this? It belonged to his wife, his _real_ wife.

But then, maybe it really had been lonely. It certainly felt like it was inspecting her while she inspected it, and she hoped it wouldn't find her wanting in some way. She'd wished for a garden as a kid – a proper garden, not the patch of dead grass off the back porch. Her gran's was lovely, but not even a quarter so large as this one.

She dipped the toes of her right foot into the brook – unsurprisingly, it was freezing. Where did it come from, and where did it go from here? It had to meet up with one of the larger streams somewhere. "I'm still scared," she said, turning to face him. "Of actually having these kids, I mean. I know Galadriel's an amazing healer and all, but has she ever dealt with a pregnant human? It's so easy for us to die, if something goes wrong. In my world, up until the last sixty years, it happened all the time. You've not got anything like modern medical technology here. As much as I really don't want to let Ratiri in on this any more than he already is, we might need his help."

Something hardened in Thranduil's pale eyes, but he didn't protest. "Will that not be awkward for you?" he asked instead.

"Sure God, yes it will be," she sighed, "but I don't see as we've got much choice. Even if he's not an obstetrician, he'll have a better idea'v things than an Elf, no matter how talented a healer they are."

She sat on the bank, a little unsteadily. If she was having such a hard time now, Christ only knew what it would be like when she'd reached the full nine months (she refused to even entertain the idea that it could be ten).

Her hormones were evidently swinging back to maudlin again, and she tried to shove away all the thoughts of the world of might-have-been. Dwelling on that sort of thing was not something she'd done, before actually being shown an alternative to the present: Lorna had always been the sort to live in the moment, and it irked her that she couldn't do so now.

"Lorna," Thranduil said, a little awkwardly, "I would not have you forever pine for the life you should have had. I know this is not what you wanted, but you cannot forever wish for what has been denied to you."

"I'm only _pining_ because I'm pregnant and hormonal," she said, and she was probably right. "Hardly ever in my life have I started out with what I wanted, but it's never stopped me. You know that."

"Yes," he said dryly, coming to sit beside her, "I do. But I see you mourn."

"Again, hormones. If I haven't tried to flat-out murder someone by the time I give birth, we'll all be lucky." She meant it, too. Part of why she isolated herself was because the temptation to strangle people was growing ever harder to ignore.

Thranduil actually _laughed_, and Lorna couldn't help but grin.

"You should do that more often," she said. "Laugh, I mean. You're not half so creepy when you don't look like a statue." It made him seem…not _human_, but something like it. "Kids need to see their parents smile and laugh. I read it in a book somewhere."

He arched an eyebrow. "_Why_ do you keep insisting I am creepy?"

"Your eyes are creepy. Like a zombie's."

"_Your_ eyes are creepy," he retorted. "They do not look real."

"I get that a lot, actually. Da hated me looking at him because'v it." He wasn't the only one, either.

"I know. I cannot blame him," Thranduil said, more dryly still. "At least if our children inherit them, they can unsettle people at will."

Lorna didn't point out that they could do the same thing if they got his. "So long as they don't get my height," she said. "You've no idea how much'v a misery that's been to me all my life."

"Actually, yes I do. Seeing the world from the perspective of one so small was jarring."

She whacked him lightly on the arm. "I just bet it was," she said, and yawned. "Lay down, will you? You might be bony, but you're a better pillow than the ground. I need a nap." She hadn't actually initiated contact with Thranduil since the night of their drunken escapades, but she no longer felt weird about it.

He snorted, but did as asked, and she sprawled on his chest like a cat. "G'night, Thranduil," she said. "Wake me up if we're about to die."

"Good-night, Dilthen Ettelëa. If the ceiling is about to collapse, I will be sure to inform you."

* * *

Lorna spent the next two weeks digging in the garden, and putting off talking to Ratiri. Though she knew she'd need his help, actually _asking_ was just too weird. In an alternate universe, they'd been married, which made it all way more awkward than if he'd just been some bloke she'd once fancied.

But she knew if she didn't do it soon, Thranduil would, and there was no way _that_ would end well, so one day she went to Galasríniel and told her she needed to see Ratiri. He was often with the healer (which Lorna was no longer so bitter about), so at least it didn't take long to fetch him.

The three of them went to her room for privacy, though there were few enough about who would hear them anyway. She'd cut a big bouquet of lilacs from the garden, and their fragrance could be smelled even out in the hallway. Thranduil had given her a pale purple lamp with hanging prisms to go with it, and she lit it while the other two sat.

"This is probably going to be kind'v awkward, Ratiri, but I think I'll need your help when I actually pop these kids out," she said. "Galadriel's an amazing healer and all, but she's not human. You've got to know way more about human innards than she does."

"I'll do what I can," he said, and there was a weird sort of grief in his voice. Had something happened to him? "The Elves don't exactly have a modern hospital, but I'll help you. God knows I owe you."

Huh? "Ratiri, you don't owe me shit," she said. "Why do you say that?"

"All right, I _would_ have owed you," he said, rubbing his temples, his face pinched as though he were in actual, physical pain.

It took a moment for comprehension to dawn, and when it did, Lorna cringed. "Have you been dreaming?" she asked. "Have you been seeing what might have been?"

"Yes," he said, looking at the floor. "Von Ratched – in that world, he didn't do what he did to me in this life, because of you. You protected me, though I didn't know that was what you were doing at first."

"Someone had to," she said quietly. "You were good and kind and _whole_, and I didn't want that fucker breaking you. Your life had been too normal for you to handle what he would have thrown at you."

"I know," he said, not a little bitterly. "I lived it, in this reality. But what he did to me isn't half as bad as what he would have done to you, but in that other world, it didn't break you."

"Yes it did," she said gently. "The Lady fixed me, but it wasn't like I was that whole to begin with. I was never like you." She paused. "Ratiri, what did he _do_ to you? Katje and Geezer can't have had it so bad."

Ratiri shivered, running his hands through his hair. Had he ever talked to anyone about this, or had it just been eating him up all this time? "Galasríniel, can I talk to Lorna alone, please?"

The healer looked both wary and worried, but she left – though Lorna had no doubt she'd be eavesdropping.

"She wouldn't understand," he said, when she'd gone. "She's never dealt with Von Ratched, or what he can do to a person's mind."

He fell silent, and Lorna let him – he'd speak in his own time. "It wasn't the tests," he said at last. "Those were horrible, and usually painful, but I could have dealt with it for a while. What got me – what _broke_ me – were his…extracurricular activities."

How such a tall man could fold himself so small, she had no idea. "Lorna, he went into my mind and he changed my memories. I know my father was a kind man, but I remember him beating my mother and I. I – I remember him _killing_ her, murdering her in the kitchen with a butcher knife right in front of me, even though I _know_ she's still alive and well in Scotland."

Jesus bloody Christ. "Ratiri," she said, "it's not safe yet, because we don't know what it is about us that infects Elves, but once we _do_ know, you need to let Lady Galadriel help you. If anyone can undo that bastard's mess, it's her. I'd try it myself if I didn't think it'd do more harm than good. You don't have to keep living with this forever." No wonder he was so screwed up. Lorna couldn't imagine having her actual memory altered, and certainly not so horrifically. "Have you not told anyone?"

"How could I?" he asked, looking up at her. "Who would understand?"

Lorna sighed, and wished she was better at this. "No one can understand what you went through," she said, "but that doesn't mean you should keep it all to yourself. That's a good way to go utterly barking." She didn't wonder _why_ he'd kept it close – explaining something like that to anyone who had never been mind-raped by a telepath would be impossible. "I don't know Katje well enough, but Geezer's a tough old bastard, and I'm sure Von Ratched rifled through his mind, too. You three've gone through something I don't share – talking to him might be better, since he's got way more experience with Von Arsehole." Knowing what he would have done to _her_ made her shudder. Nothing she'd endure in Middle-Earth could compare.

"Lorna," Ratiri said carefully, "I know Thranduil went through your mind by force. Did he…force anything else?"

"What? No!" She could feel her face flaming. "We were both drunk off our arses, but it was consensual." She supposed someone could make argument for dubious consent, but considering they were both completely smashed, it would apply to each of them. Neither had been sober enough to take conscious advantage of the other – she was entirely sure that if she'd really protested, Thranduil would have dropped it.

"You're certain?" He was looking at her very strangely, a worry entirely out of proportion even to his question in his eyes.

She looked away, her face heating even further. "Yeah," she said. "Very certain."

"Okay then." Ratiri sounded every bit as uncomfortable as she felt, but the worry was still there.

_God, you'd think we were teenagers, not fully grown adults who ought to be well beyond being embarrassed by this sort of thing_, she thought. "All right, this is _way_ too awkward, and I'm craving caramel French fries," she said, rising. "Talk to Geezer, when you're ready. Trust me, you'll feel better when you do."

He followed her out into the corridor, looking rather dubious, but Lorna was pretty sure he'd come round eventually. A person didn't get over that kind of trauma overnight, but it_ could_ be dealt with.

Meanwhile, her head ached and her ankles were swollen like balloons – she remembered Mam's doing that with Mick, but not this badly. She knew Galasríniel would have something for her head, and then maybe it was finally time to head out and let her pregnancy become common knowledge. It had to happen sooner or later. She wasn't sure she was ready to answer all of their questions; she might never be ready for that, but she had to do it sooner or later.

"Lorna," Ratiri said, "how long have you had that headache?"

"How'd you know I have one?" she asked.

"Your aura has grey in it. Grey means pain and sickness. How long have you had it?"

She shrugged. "On and off for the last few days. I've got herbs I take, but it always comes back."

"Are your ankles swollen?" he asked, with an urgency in his voice that worried her.

"Yeah," she said slowly. "Why?"

"Come with me," he said, and all but dragged her off down the corridor. "It's early in your pregnancy, but I'm worried about pre-eclampsia. We need Lady Galadriel, I think, because I doubt the others will know how to treat it."

"How _do_ you treat it?" she asked, apprehension fluttering in her gut like a trapped rat.

"Ordinarily, delivery of the fetus," he said grimly. "It's far too soon for that, but Elvish medicine is remarkable."

Dread squeezed Lorna's heart like an iron fist. It _was_ too early – she hadn't even entered her second trimester. The twins didn't even qualify as babies yet. "What happens if she can't treat it?"

Ratiri paused, and his grey eyes were grave as he looked down at her. "Then we have to terminate the pregnancy," he said. "If we don't, it will turn into full eclampsia. You'll have seizures, slip into a coma, and eventually die."

She swallowed hard. "You don't pull any punches, do you?" The apprehension shifted to panic that sent her heart pounding like a jackhammer, icy sweat breaking out at her temples.

"I can't afford to, and neither can you," he said, hurrying her down the hallway again.

"Can't afford what?" Why was he making her move so fast? She couldn't remember, but it was irritating.

Ratiri gave her a look of utter dread, and picked her up.

* * *

Thranduil held court once a month, in order to give his subjects the chance to submit petitions that would otherwise have been filtered by the Council. It was necessary to let the common folk see him, and speak to him if they wished (or dared). While he would freely admit he was ill-tempered, he did care for his people, no matter how much they irked him at times.

Court in winter was often dull, and it was too early in the spring for anyone to present grievances from outside the halls. At first he was glad to have it interrupted by a messenger – until he heard what the messenger had to say.

"My lord, you are needed in the healing wards," she said, low and urgent. After a glance at the curious crowd, she switched to fractured English. "Something wrong with Lorna."

Icy fear shivered through him. "Galion, dismiss everyone," he ordered. "We will reconvene later." He rose, and stalked away before the butler could protest.

"What is it?" he asked, once they'd left the hall.

"Ratiri calls it pre-eclampsia," she said, all but running to keep up with him. "It is an ailment that can afflict Edain women who are with child, especially twins. Lady Galadriel is with them now."

"Is it dangerous?" he asked.

The messenger swallowed audibly. "Yes, my Lord."

Thranduil hurried faster, scattering all who stood in his way. He had hoped, foolishly, that Lorna was past complication – that now that the twins were well on their way to actually being children, their presence would be more firmly entrenched. Of course she could not be so lucky. Of course not.

When he reached the wards, he found a cluster of healers gathered uselessly around one of the tables, awaiting orders. Galadriel and Ratiri stood at the center, and Thranduil shoved the healers aside so that he might see what they were doing.

Galadriel had a bowl of athelas water, which she was using to bathe Lorna's brow. Lorna herself was raised up enough on pillows to sip a pale green cordial – it was possibly a relaxant, for she did not seem to fear anything. She looked dazed, her eyes not quite focused, though she gave him a vague smile.

"All of you, _out_," he ordered, and the healers scattered like chickens. He pulled Ratiri aside, leaving Galadriel to work in peace. "What is pre-eclampsia, and what are you doing about it?"

He had to give Ratiri credit – there was no timidity about him now, no uncertainty. A healer was a healer, no matter what one called them, and when their craft was needed, all else was ignored. "We call it a hypertensive disorder," he said. "Her blood pressure is too high. No one knows for certain just what causes it, but the only known effective treatment is delivery of the fetus. Normally it occurs much later in a pregnancy, so that's usually a safe option for the child as well as the mother."

He paused. "I don't know how long Elves take to gestate, but no human child has ever survived being born before the twenty-third week. Lorna is only on week fourteen. Galadriel believes she can nurse her until then, but if not, I'll have to terminate the pregnancy, or she'll die."

"Terminate it?" If that meant what Thranduil thought it meant, he might just have to kill Ratiri.

"If I don't, she'll have seizures, slip into a coma, and die of multiple organ failure," Ratiri said bluntly, "and then they will die anyway. Even if Galadriel keeps her alive that long, I hope Elf children are more resilient than humans, because you don't have any of the equipment needed for that level of post-natal care.

"Even with the best technology, the survival rate of babies _that_ premature is fifteen percent. If we can nurse her to twenty-four weeks, it's fifty-five percent, but you have no incubators, no way to administer oxygen, and no IV's for saline. In some ways your healing is superior to ours, but in others it's horribly lacking. Not everything can be treated with _herbs_."

There was a shocking level of anger in the man's voice. "You seem rather distressed," Thranduil said, stating the totally obvious.

Ratiri scrubbed his right hand over his face. "I know how to treat premature birth," he said. "I was a pediatrician – I specialized in working with children – but I have training in neonatal care as well. If Lorna managed to carry these children long enough, I'd have a chance at saving them, but you have _nothing_ I would need. I don't even have the tools to induce early labor, and a Caesarian isn't even to be thought of."

"What _is_ a Caesarian?" He could find no definition of the term in what he had of Lorna's memories, though she knew what it meant.

"A surgical procedure where the uterus is opened through the abdomen, and the fetus removed," Ratiri said, glancing back at Lorna.

"You can _do_ that?" Thranduil had seen that her world was filled with many wonders, but her knowledge of medicine was slim.

Ratiri smiled, but it was bitter and humorless. "We can," he said. "We can replace hearts and lungs, we can operate on brains and eyes and often save people from cancer, but only with the proper tools. And you don't have the materials to make them, even if you knew how. I'll try to save her, and them, but I'm telling you right now I can't make any promises. Unless Galadriel is a miracle-worker, odds are high that one or all of them will die."

Thranduil said nothing to that, because there was nothing _to_ say. "If the healers cannot discover a way to induce labor, as you put it, I will be very surprised," was all he could offer. "If the Valar will the children's survival, survive they will. If not…" If not, Lorna had already lost one child, and he knew from her memories that it had nearly destroyed her. Strong though she was, he did not know if she could endure such a loss again.

* * *

See, in the _original_ chapter, she actually did get eclampsia and lose both twins. I was seriously in a dark, bad place last night, but this fic isn't meant to be that grim.

As ever, reviews are the sustenance of my brain. As opposed to my brain being the sustenance for zombies.

Title means "Fear" in Irish


	40. Cneasaí

Chapter Forty. Hot damn.

In which Ratiri and the Elves attempt to create modern medical instruments, Lorna is really not pleased about being stuck in the healing wards, and another, rather more disturbing stranger is found in the woods.

* * *

The next week, Thranduil refused to let Lorna out of his sight. Galadriel had ordered bed rest, and he did not trust Lorna to keep to it.

He was right to worry, too. She often had periods of confusion, which Ratiri had said were characteristic of pre-eclampsia, but thus far Galadriel had kept the more dangerous symptoms in check.

To aid her kidneys, she had to drink very large amounts of water, which meant frequent trips to the toilets, since she flatly refused to use a chamber-pot. During one of her more lucid moments, she scowled at him like a thunderstorm. "We are never having more kids," she said, on her way back from her fifth trip to the toilets. "_Ever_."

"I do not think it would be wise," he agreed, shadowing her the entire way. Her balance did not seem affected, but he wasn't taking any chances. Quite honestly, he had never thought more would be an option, given that she had yet to openly acknowledge the validity of their marriage. Perhaps she was not as lucid as he thought.

When they reached her room again, she grunted as she hauled herself back up onto the bed. "Can't we at least go to the garden? Staring at these walls all day'll drive me spare long before I pop these kids out."

"You cannot stray so far from the healing wards," he said. "It is only a few months.

Lorna's glower grew even darker. "That's a lot longer to a human than it is to an Elf," she said. "Especially when the human's got to pee every five minutes."

"Oh, lie down and I'll rub your back," he ordered.

"I'll sit back and watch the stars," she said, a statement of utter nonsense that signaled the end of her lucidity. The muddling of her awareness disturbed him, even though Ratiri told him it would pass once she had birthed the children. He never knew, from one moment to the next, where her mind was.

And she had nine more weeks to endure this. If she did not murder him after the birth, Thranduil would count himself very lucky.

* * *

Ratiri knew what he needed. He even knew how to make some of it. The problem was that he lacked even the basics of the tools he would need to do it.

Assuming those babies survived birth, they were going to need oxygen. Liquid oxygen wasn't at all hard to make – if you had the right refrigeration equipment, which the Elves most decidedly did not. The smiths could probably make the canisters easily enough, but they had nothing resembling plastic for the tubing.

For that, he went to the weavers, dragging Arandur with him to translate. Though he had not yet heeded Lorna's advice and talked to Geezer, just now he didn't _need _to. He was a doctor, and now that he had a chance to _be _a doctor again, he no longer felt utterly adrift and helpless.

The weavers, he discovered, were a large group of Elves both male and female. Their workroom was, like every other room in these caves, massive, but in this case it was actually warranted: looms of all sizes were ranged throughout it, along with shelves of hundreds of different sorts of thread, from wool yarn to a silk fine as cobwebs. Bolts of completed fabric lined the walls, waiting to be taken to the seamstresses and tailors, and from there to the bodies of almost every Elf in the halls.

Their overseer was an exceptionally tall Elf woman with black hair and vivid blue eyes. She didn't look terribly pleased at being interrupted, but she was obviously curious.

"Tell her I need a material so tightly woven that no air can pass through it," he said to Arandur. He was thinking of something like oilskin, but he doubted the Elves would have anything like it. They probably didn't care if they got wet out in the forest.

"I do not understand," Arandur said.

Ratiri wracked his brain. "Do you know what waterproof means? I need a fabric that will hold water." That might be something they could grasp.

The confusion cleared from Arandur's face, and he translated for the weaver. She nodded, and led them through the maze of looms, past a gauntlet of intrigued eyes. From a shelf she produced a bolt of what looked like black silk, and held it out for inspection.

Ratiri ran his fingers over it. It didn't feel like plastic _or _cloth; the texture was far more slippery than it looked, but he suspected it would be airtight, or close to it. Fully aware that he was about to look like a lunatic, he bunched some of it into a vague balloon shape, and blew into it as hard as he could.

To his satisfaction, it swelled, and held for a moment. He couldn't tell how long it would be capable of sustaining it, because he had no way of properly sealing the hole, but it looked promising.

"Good," he said, ignoring their incredulous expressions. "I need two yards of that." He was going to have to talk to Thranduil about what to _do_ with it; there was no way Arandur would understand. "Smiths next." He'd made a drawing for them that was admittedly crude, given when he had to work with. The canisters would probably be easy enough, but they'd need a diagram for the switches and valves.

The weaver, who really was looking at him as though he'd lost his mind, cut the fabric when Arandur asked, and Ratiri left with it folded and tucked under his arm.

"Ratiri, what is it you are building?" Arandur asked, as he led Ratiri down to the forges.

"Sometimes, humans can have a hard time breathing on their own," he said. "Premature babies among them. Canned oxygen assists until their lungs can function on their own. How I'm going to build an _incubator_, I don't know, with the right equipment, I can make liquid oxygen."

"How – _what_?" Arandur looked utterly lost.

Ratiri, who had been deriving more than a little satisfaction in baffling the Elves over scientific matters lately, said, "The air we breathe is made up of two elements, oxygen and hydrogen Get them cold enough and they will liquefy. Granted, this is usually done in a laboratory setting, but the liquid can be returned to a gaseous state and bottled. Because hydrogen as a lower boiling point, the as in the canister is pure oxygen. It's science, Arandur. Earth doesn't have magic, but for some things, science is better."

Arandur shook his head. "I knew that your people were more advanced than the Edain of Middle-Earth, but it seems I am continually learning how _much _more. You have done things even the Eldar have never dreamt of."

"Just wait until you get an electrical engineer," Ratiri said. "You won't need torches or candles anymore. Maybe someone can even build radiators, so you can give up the fireplaces."

Poor Arandur shook his head. "If too many of your kind come here, you will alter Middle-Earth," he said. "I do not know how good a thing that is."

"Medical technology is never bad," Ratiri said. "Some of the other things from our world don't ever need to come here, but the ability to save lives is always a good thing. We just need to invent the tools to do it."

* * *

Lorna was tired and bored, though at least her back no longer hurt. If Thranduil ever got sick of being a king, he could make a damn good living as a masseuse. Already, she couldn't properly lie on her stomach, by she got close enough, and wondered what she'd have to do to bribe him not to stop until after she'd given birth.

"We need to figure out what we're going to do about Von Ratched," she said, half muffed by her pillow. "Assuming Galadriel and I can fix your brain, anyway. I wouldn't put it past him to develop some nasty weapons."

"Do not worry about that yet, Dilthen Ettelëa. Not until we have spoken with the other Edain, and know more of him. They have had much more experience with him than you."

She shivered. "I found out what he did to Ratiri," she said, and almost purred when Thranduil's hand found the knot between her shoulder blades. "He went in and altered his memories, but left the knowledge that they'd been altered. Poor bloke remembered his father murdering his mother, even though he knows she's actually alive and well."

Thranduil went still. "He did _what_?"

"I don't know how extensive it is, but I'm betting it's bad. Once we've figured out how to stop us infecting you telepathically, Lady Galadriel has to take a look at him. He can't keep going on like that forever."

"No," Thranduil said, an odd edge to his voice, "he cannot. When Mithrandir returns from Dale, I will see what he might be able to do."

"Gandalf went to Dale?" she asked, nudging his hand with her shoulder. "When?"

"Near three weeks ago," he said, taking the hint and resuming his massage. Ugh, heaven. "Naturally, he would not say why, nor when he will return."

"Keeps you on your toes," she said, smiling.

Arandur trailed Ratiri everywhere for the next fortnight, and because convinced that the Edain of Earth were mad, brilliant, or both.

The canisters, as Ratiri called them, were so simple, yet so unlike anything the Eldar had ever used. Ratiri demonstrated the valve, explaining that so long as it was closed, the trapped gas could not escape, and that the flow of the oxygen could be controlled by how far open it was.

Not that there was as yet anything to _be _controlled. After speaking with the smiths, scholars, and Lady Galadriel, they'd decided only magic could produce the kind of cold necessary to turn air into liquid. Arandur still could not understand how that could properly be done, but it had been universally agreed that only Mithrandir would be able to do it.

From the cloth, the seamstresses had fashioned tubes that hooked to the openings of the canisters. Each ended in a tiny, square cup, just big enough to fit over a newborn's mouth and nose, to be held in place by ribbon. Ratiri was somewhat annoyed that they would not be able to seal properly – whatever that meant – but he seemed convinced they would be efficient anyway.

That might be unusual and interesting, but the blood bags were a bit more than Arandur could handle. They went to the King to explain those, since Arandur's English wasn't quite good enough to properly understand. It meant they had to pry the King from Lorna's side, which they managed only by replacing him with Lady Galadriel.

"Human women all too often hemorrhage during a difficult birth," Ratiri said, holding up the bag. It was rectangular, with a metal valve much like the canisters. An even smaller tube would attach to the vale, and end in a hollow needle that had not yet been crafted – mostly because so far, no one had figured out how.

"What we do in that case is replace their blood – it's called a transfusion. Fortunately, Katje's type O, which makes her a universal donor, but plasma has to stay frozen. Is there any way you can do that, without Gandalf?"

The King eyed the little bag. "You Edain really are remarkable creatures. We could freeze it for a time, but not, I think, long enough. Spring is cold in this part of the world, but it will thaw before Lorna delivers. For that, we do need Mithrandir." He did not sound pleased about it, but he did not like having to rely on anyone, and of late he was reliant on far too many people.

"I was afraid of that," Ratiri said grimly. "In that case, Katje will have to donate while Katje is in labor, which means we won't have as much available. It's not safe for any one human to give more than ten percent of their blood."

"Can Geezer not aid in that?" the King asked.

Ratiri shook his head. "I don't know his blood type, or Lorna's, and I don't have the equipment to find out. Transfusion from incompatible donors can result in illness, or even death."

"How have your people learned these things?" Arandur asked.

Ratiri carefully packed the bag away into a box. "Trial, error, and war. King Thranduil, I don't know what knowledge of Earth's weapons you took from Lorna's mind, but there's a reason most of our people try to avoid outright war – our weapons are too effective."

"I know something of guns," the King said, "and the things called tanks, though I am less certain of what they do."

"Make them explode. We had two world wars within twenty years of each other – the first killed eight million people, and the second, twenty-two million. A lot of medical procedures were invented out of sheer necessity."

Arandur stared at him, and even the King's eyes widened. Such numbers dwarfed even the War of Wrath.

"I knew there had been two world wars," the King said, "but not how many had perished in them. Eight million is inconceivable, let alone _twenty-two _million."

"Oh, in the first war we also lost a hundred million to disease," Ratiri said, fastening the lock on the box. "Roughly five percent of the global population at the time. A number of people though the world was ending, though there aren't many people still alive who remember it."

"When was it?" Arandur asked. Never, ever had he heard or read of such a plague. He couldn't fathom it.

"Ninety-seven years ago," Ratiri said. "Not even so long by our standards, let alone yours."

Ninety-seven years…it would take the Eldar far longer to recover from such a loss, because they bore so few children. But then, Edain were so short-lived that they had no choice. Otherwise their people would have died out entirely.

"How long do the people of your world live?" the King asked, a rather odd note in his voice.

"That depends on a lot of things," Ratiri said. "Health, but genetics play a fairly large role, too. Mid-eighties is the average for the developed world, though more and more are living into their nineties."

"I see." He really did sound peculiar, and it took Arandur a moment to work out why: he wanted to know how much longer Lorna might live. Right now she was in her thirties – even if she lived to her nineties, that was only sixty years. Sixty years was nothing to an Elf; he wouldn't have a wife, and the children wouldn't have a mother, for very long at all. And Arandur wouldn't have a friend.

Sometimes, he thought, Eru could be utterly cruel.

* * *

Tauriel was not surprised to find yet another stranger in the forest – in all honesty, she would have expected to find a new one long before now. What _did _surprise her was that this one did not appear to be Edain – nor Eldar, nor anything else she'd ever seen.

She looked like an Edain woman, tall as an Elf and even paler, her long hair dyed vivid blue. She couldn't be Edain, however, because she wore only trousers like those Lorna had arrived with, and a shirt without sleeves – spring though it was, there was still snow on the ground, and any Edain wearing so little would be half frozen. Her arms were covered with deep, twisting scars, faded with age, as were those on her throat. A wide, uneven one ran straight through her left eye, though the yet itself was undamaged.

It also didn't match the right, which made Tauriel suspect this was Marty's mother. Though Lorna had said those of her world did not use swords, the people of Marty's must, because this woman had a sword nearly as long as she was tall strapped to her back.

There was also something terribly, terribly _wrong _about her, and not just because she wasn't breathing – Marty didn't breathe, but that only seemed natural, somehow. There was nothing at all natural about this woman, and Tauriel found her fingers itching for her bow. "Are you from Earth?" she asked instead.

"I started there," the woman said, "but just how I've come from the Other. I hope you people have my daughter, because if not, God help whatever other poor bastard found her."

"Is her name Marty?" Faelon asked.

"That would be the one. I hope she hasn't lit anything on fire."

"Not that I am aware," Tauriel said, and then added carefully, "Are you…like her?"

"I'm not like anyone," the woman said, "but I won't hurt you, if that's what you're worried about. I've come to help you."

Tauriel certainly hoped she wasn't secretly an enemy. If she didn't breathe, she wasn't alive, and if she wasn't alive, she couldn't be killed. "I must take you to King," she said, not even wanting to know what _he _would make of her – assuming he could be pried away from the healing wards. He seemed to have taken up residence there for the last month.

The odd woman fell in beside her, silent. Even her proximity felt wrong – this was a creature of terrible power, but it was broken, as fractured as the light of her fëa. While she did not feel like an evil creature, that didn't necessarily make her a _good _one.

Her presence kept the normal joking and conversation absent, a palpable unease falling over the company. It was a little ridiculous – this woman was strange, yes, and alien, but there was nothing overtly _threatening _about her. Nevertheless, Tauriel found herself hyper-alert, and she doubted she was the only one. The lingering snow didn't crunch or squeak beneath the woman's boots, and the fact that she produced no fog of breath was far more unsettling than it ought to have been.

Evening was fast approaching, so they hurried through the dark, twisting trees, which were just beginning to bud. Sunset stained the snow red, but the quiet stillness of the forest was broken by a faint, distant cracking – the telltale sound of spiders. It was about time for them to be active again, but this was not an opportune moment.

"What is that?" the woman asked, head tilted to one side.

"Spiders," Tauriel said. "Very big spiders. I hope you use that." She was kicking herself for not keeping up with her English lessons with Arandur – while she could understand this woman well enough, trying to speak with her was a frustration none of them needed.

"I can if I need to," she said, swinging the scabbard off her back. That sword really was monstrously oversized, even for so tall a woman. "Why spiders?"

"A question we ask ourselves daily," Tauriel said in Sindarin. "Long story," she offered in English.

"It always is."

The guards, old hands at dealing with spider-packs, took their positions – archers midway up the trees and close to the ground, the better to attack from above and below, where the spiders lacked natural armor. The swordsmen, who served both as bait and as the last line of defense, stood in the open, as did their newcomer. She alone seemed to hold no sense of anticipation, and Tauriel wondered if she was even capable of the emotion.

Few in the guard would admit it, but after a winter of inaction, Tauriel couldn't be the only one who was a little pleased at having something to _do_, even if it was only killing spiders. True, it was hardly a challenge – spiders, after all, had no concept of strategy – but it was a change from endlessly sparring.

Dark was falling fast, but Elvish eyes needed little light. Perched in a tree, she could see the unnatural movement of boughs not far off, the cracking now very loud. From the sound of it, there were a fair number of them, and they were very likely starving: game was hard to come by in winter, and at times they had resorted to eating each other.

She'd put an arrow through the eye of the first before it even reached the path, earning a grumble from Faelon, who had evidently also been aiming. It made a horrible squishing sound, and the spider shrieked, its legs flailing before it fell with a heavy thud.

There were plenty more behind it, but to Tauriel's immense surprise, they stopped, the ones at the front halting so suddenly that the ones behind crashed into them. They let out a truly horrific hissing sound, such as she had rarely heard in all her centuries of patrol, pincers waving as they tried to crawl backward. What in Eru's name was going on?

"Well," the strange woman said, nearly inaudible over the noise, "that's disgusting." Tauriel looked down at her; despite her words, her expression was one of fascination. "Do they always do this?"

"No," Tauriel said. "Fire!" The spiders were trying to flee, but that couldn't be allowed: they would only crawl somewhere and breed.

Fire they did, until the shrieking of the dying filled the air, accompanied by the snap of branches as the ungainly creatures collapsed.

The archers leapt from tree to tree, trying to cut them off. Even now, though, they didn't attack – never had she seen a spider run away from potential prey, no matter how well-armed it was. These were trampling over each other and everything else in their haste to escape, the hissing still clear even over the screaming.

The stench of spider-blood filled her nose, noxious and metallic – _that _was not something she would ever miss. She shot another spider square in the eye, her blood pumping in spite of her confusion, the cries of the beasts like discordant music in her ears—

And then everything stopped. The spiders, as one, went still, and crashed to the forest floor like so many stones, their legs curled in death. Silence fell, leaving Tauriel and all those she could see incredibly baffled.

She heard the faint _tzing _of a sword being sheathed, and looked down to see their newest stranger staring at a spider carcass.

"Creepy," she said.

A terrible, icy apprehension filled Tauriel's veins, and she thought she knew why the spiders fled – though not why they had all died so suddenly and at once. She leapt down from her tree, landing in front of the woman. "They ran from you," she said, and it was not a question.

"Probably," the woman said. "Many things do."

"And you killed them all." Again, not a question.

Those mismatched eyes were almost hypnotic. "It saved time. I want to see my daughter."

"What _are _you?" Tauriel asked.

The faintest ghost of a smile crossed the woman's face. "My name is Sharley," she said. "I'm a friend. And you have no idea how much you're gonna need one."

Tauriel certainly _hoped _she was a friend. Thought of her as an enemy was not to be borne.

* * *

When Thranduil returned to Lorna's room, it was very soberly.

He had tried to avoid thinking much on just how short a time Lorna would have in Middle-Earth. Assuming their children chose the life of the Eldar, they would lose their mother forever, and far too soon. _He _would lose her, and just now, he did not think he could bear it. The 'why' of that was another thing he didn't want to contemplate.

She was asleep when he entered, and he let her sleep once Galadriel had left. Edain slept so very much – their already short lines were too often wasted in slumber. And they always looked dead.

Lorna lay facing away from him, so he crept onto the bed beside her and wrapped his arm around her waist. She was very evidently with child now – her stomach was rounded beneath his hand. "You are not allowed to die," he said against her hair.

"Okay," she said, her voice thick with sleep.

"Ever. I mean it."

"I'm sure you do. I'll do my best."

"As long as that best achieves immortality."

"You're weird, Thranduil. Go the fuck to sleep."

* * *

Oh, Thranduil. You'll acknowledge that sooner or later. Sharley's arrival is definitely going to shake things up a bit, though not nearly so much as her news.

I'm going out of town this weekend, so I probably won't be able to update, though I'm sure I'll find time to work a bit on the next chapter. As always, reviews are sunlight and I am a plant. Shine on me, you crazy diamonds.

Title means "Healer" in Irish


	41. Tráth

In which Thranduil, Lorna, and Galadriel wonder if their newest visitor is a blessing or a curse, and Sharley offers both warnings and help they could not otherwise obtain.

* * *

Galadriel had been glad for the opportunity to leave, because she desperately needed to consult her mirror.

Something had just shifted the very fabric of the world, in a way she had never before known. If Lorna's world had somehow spat something else into Middle-Earth, it was like none who had gone before it. It did not feel like a malevolent presence, but that did not mean it wasn't one. She hoped that the Mirror would provide some enlightenment.

When she reached her chambers, she locked the door behind her. Little Marty had an unfortunate habit of barging into rooms without bothering to knock half the time, and this was not a thing that should be interrupted.

The sound of water pouring into the basin for once failed to be soothing, but she waited patiently for the surface to still. Some things could not be rushed, no matter how urgent they were.

A picture began to form, drawn from the shallow depths – spiders, fleeing through the trees as though the hounds of Morgoth pursued them. Guards, incredibly confused, both in the trees and on the ground – the ground, where this unsettling aberration stood.

Her physical appearance was odd, but not unduly remarkable, even with her blue hair. It was her fëa that was striking – and deeply unsettling.

It was not its brilliance, although that was noteworthy: it was the fact that it was _broken_. Galadriel would not have thought that possible. The fëa was a spiritual mirror of the physical form, but this strange creature's was filled with cracks, split wide open in places to let a warmer, almost blinding light through. It was as though there was a second fëa beneath it, struggling to break free, with the first acting as some manner of cage.

_What_ had Lorna's world thrown at them now?

The woman, if woman she was, carried a very large sword, and the sight of it sent Galadriel cold, though she could not have said why. Unlike the swords of Elves, Men, or Dwarves, it was utterly plain, the blade straight and unadorned, the hilt functional and nothing more. There was something fearsome about it that had nothing at all to do with its appearance.

And the guards, it seemed, were leading her back to the halls. While Galadriel questioned the wisdom of that, she could not deny that she was curious. Whether for good or ill, this creature brought change, simply by being…whatever she was.

* * *

Thranduil had no idea he'd fallen asleep until he was roused by a knock on the door.

He blinked, momentarily disoriented, before he rose to open it. Lady Galadriel stood on the other side, and though her face was outwardly serene as ever, there was worry in the depths of her eyes. There was no possible way _that_ could bode well.

"I must speak with you, Thranduil," she said, quiet but urgent. "Now."

He glanced at Lorna, who had evidently woken with him – she was rubbing her eyes, and muttering curses in Irish.

"Come on in,' she said, "unless it's totally private."

"It is not, though I would ask that it go no further than this." Galadriel entered, shutting the door firmly behind her. "A being of great power approaches," she said, without further preamble. "I do not think she is a foe, but neither am I certain she is a friend. This is your real, Thranduil – I would have you with me, when she arrives."

He glanced at Lorna. Though she had suffered no further harm, he still did not wish to leave her.

It must have showed in his expression, for she said, "I'll go with you, if you're that paranoid. And before you say anything about the healing wards, Lady Galadriel will be with us. I couldn't be in better hands than hers, and I _really_ need to get out'v here for a while."

She had a point that he couldn't deny, but it still sat ill with him. "You cannot hide your pregnancy any longer," he pointed out.

Lorna snorted. "I'm past caring about that. It'll be common knowledge in a month and a half anyway."

She had a point there, too. He only hoped she was lucid enough to really know what she was saying. She didn't seem muddled, but that did not necessarily mean anything; they'd had more than one conversation that appeared perfectly rational, only for her to say something completely bizarre and disconnected.

Still, if he left her behind she'd just follow anyway, and likely make trouble while she did. "If you are too slow, I will carry you," he warned. "I know how embarrassing that would be."

She cocked a somewhat unimpressed eyebrow. "Thranduil," she said patiently, "shut your cake-hole and let's go."

"I give up," he sighed, and helped her to her feet.

"You should've done_ that_ ages ago," she said, but there was something very like fondness in her tone.

The healers they passed all looked rather alarmed at the sight of Lorna headed so purposefully for the corridor, but she was right: she could be in no better hands than Galadriel's. They had to detour to the toilets, and when she'd emerged, Galadriel handed her a large jug of water.

"Ratiri's orders," she said, when Lorna made a face.

"I know. That doesn't mean I have to like it."

"Do you like _anything_ at the moment?" Thranduil asked, as they emerged into the hallway.

"Backrubs," she said, taking a sip off the jug. "_Those_ I love. I could do with a drink, but I know that's a no-no until I've popped these kids out."

"And until you have finished nursing," Galadriel said.

"You know, I have no idea how long women are meant to do that," Lorna said, struggling up the first flight of steps. "I can't remember how long Mam did it with my youngest brother." She paused. "What if I _can't_ nurse both'v them? A woman only makes so much milk, and you've not got powdered formula here."

"You will be fine," Galadriel assured her. "You and your children. Ratiri, for all his superior healers' tools, has no comprehension of what Elvish medicine can accomplish. All will be well."

Of course, Thranduil thought, a little sourly, Lorna would seem far more reassured by Galadriel's words than anything _he_ had said to her. Then again, Galadriel had never violated her mind, or kidnapped her. In some ways, he would always be at a disadvantage.

She was certainly moving fast enough, which he suspected was only because she had no wish to be picked up and carried like a child herself. While she wasn't actually waddling yet, it was only a matter of time, and then he would have to take great care to keep a straight face, lest she throw something heavy at him.

They shortly ran into more Elves, several of whom gave Lorna very startled looks. She ignored them, soldiering on with grim determination. Thranduil didn't need to look at Galadriel to know that she too was silently amused by the sight.

"Shut it, Thranduil," Lorna said, shooting him an irritated look over her shoulder.

"I said nothing," he said innocently.

"You didn't need to. Sure God do I need a staff like Gandalf's. These stairs are murder." She did seem rather out of breath, and her face was redder than it ought to be.

"Give me your arm," he ordered. "Perhaps you can regain some measure of dignity before we meet this…person."

Lorna glowered, but he could see amusement lurking in her eyes. "You're so very charming," she said, but took his arm. "I'm sure you're a real hit with the ladies."

"I could be," he said, giving her the haughtiest look he could muster.

She didn't quite manage to choke back a laugh. "Not with that expression. And you'd better not, mister – you're married now."

It was the first time she'd said 'married' without withering scorn. Perhaps she'd finally resigned herself to the fact that, yes, they _were_ married, whether she wanted to admit it or not. Thranduil was rather irritated with himself for hoping that she had. "Duly noted," he said.

"Good."

He could_ feel_ Galadriel's smile burning against the back of his head. No doubt she found the entire situation wholly amusing, but at least she had the grace to keep it to herself.

Ordinarily, he would have received any newcomers in his throne room, but right now he had another visiting ruler to consider, as well as a wife who couldn't bear standing for very long. The lesser council chamber would have to suffice, provided someone had actually kindled a fire in it. Keeping rooms warm inside of a cave was always something of a challenge, no matter what the season.

By the time they reached it, Lorna was leaning heavily on his arm. "Please tell me there's a toilet nearby," she said.

"Small door at the back of the room," he assured her. "Go."

Go she did, as fast as her short legs could carry her. There was indeed a fire in the grate, though it burned low, so he stirred it and added more wood. Galadriel moved about like a pale ghost, lighting the lamps along the walls. Amused though she was by Lorna, he could still feel the unease that lingered beneath it.

This being of great power, whatever it was, could not have come from Lorna's world. Only Edain lived there – perhaps this person had come from the same world as Marty and Aelis. He certainly hoped so – should another world become involved, he did know if he could bear it.

No sooner had he sat than a guard, as close to breathless as an Elf could be, burst into the room. "My lord," she said, with a short bow, "we found something in the woods."

"I know," he said, folding his hands on the shining table. "Bring her here."

The guard's eyes flicked to Lady Galadriel, whose presence explained his foreknowledge. "Yes, my lord." She inclined her head, and left as swiftly as she had come in.

Lorna emerged from the toilet, and clambered up on to the chair to his right. "Shouldn't your son be here?" she asked.

"He would be, were he not out on patrol. Should this creature prove a friend rather than foe, he will meet her upon his return." Legolas had kept very quiet on his opinion of all these strangers, but that was often his way, unless he thought something was a danger. _Then_ he made his opinion very well-known, which Thranduil didn't want to admit was a trait inherited from him. Sweet Eru, with him and Lorna for parents, the twins were likely to prove the most stubborn creatures in Middle-Earth, alive or dead. He dreaded the thought of their toddler years, which at least were mercifully brief.

"I can't find my phone," she said, her brow furrowed with the kind of confusion he had come to dread.

"There is no phone, Lorna," he said, as gently as he was able. "You are in the Woodland Realm. We have no phones."

"I knew that," she said, in a tone that would have convinced no one. "If it isn't my phone, what've I lost?" She was looking around the room, her eyes searching each wall and corner with vague distress.

"You have lost nothing, Dilthen Ettelëa. Can you focus? The guards are ringing a new stranger."

"I_ am_ focused, Drag Queen Barbie," she said, but though there was sharpness in her tone, she said 'Drag Queen Barbie' with a strange sort of affection. It might have started out as an epithet, but she no longer used it as one. Thranduil did not yet know if that was the result of her incoherent thought, or if her feelings actually had shifted. He likely wouldn't know until she'd actually birthed the children, and her mind was her own again.

She was visibly trying to shove away her unease, so he rubbed her shoulders with one hand. That always seemed to calm her, lucid or not. As she was now, she was rather like a cat, right down to her love of sleeping in warm places and having her back stroked. She'd even curled up like one, until her stomach grew too round.

He'd swear she was purring when Tauriel, who looked as though she had taken a moment to neaten her clothing and hair, came in. She gave a short bow, outwardly radiating calm, but her green eyes were filled with strain. Following her was a tall, blue-haired woman with the oddest fëa he had ever seen in his life.

"My lord, this is Sharley," Tauriel said. "We found her in the forest. She says she is Marty's mother."

Thranduil looked at Lorna, who looked at him. They knew that name, though there was no way Tauriel could have.

"You're early," Lorna said in English. "Aelis said you wouldn't turn up for another few years."

"I wasn't supposed to," Sharley said, her eyes flicking from Lorna to Thranduil to Galadriel. Her voice was oddly hoarse, as though she did not often use it. "Things change." Already he sensed that she was the sort who rarely offered information unless questioned. Well, he had a question.

"Why is your soul broken?" he demanded.

Lorna kicked him under the table. "Thranduil, what the hell kind'v question is _that_?" she asked.

"A valid one," he retorted. "Nothing I have ever seen, living or dead, has a fëa like hers."

Sharley shook her head. "I don't know you nearly well enough to answer that question. I'm no threat to you."

"Because you choose not to be," Galadriel said. "The spiders flee from you. And you carry a weapon the like of which I have not seen since I left Valinor. You _could_ be a very great threat."

"Well, yeah," she admitted, "but so could you. You could kill everybody in this room but me and not break a sweat, and the only reason I'm exempt's 'cause I'm already dead. We're all a threat, Lady Galadriel. What matters is which way we direct it."

Thranduil supposed he shouldn't be surprised that this odd creature already knew Galadriel's name. Before he could say so, however, Lorna piped up.

"_I'm_ no threat," she said, visibly irked by it.

Sharley turned those strange, mismatched eyes to her. "You could be," she said. "You should have been, and you _will_ be. In the other world, your gift unlocked because you got traumatized as hell by Von Ratched. That obviously hasn't happened here, but childbirth's pretty damn traumatic on its own. Trust me on that one. If that doesn't unlock what you've got stored in that head of yours, I don't know what will."

"Amazingly, that's not at all helpful," Lorna said, and shuddered.

_He_ thought it was, but he was hardly going to say so. She was dreading the birth enough already.

"It will be," Sharley said. "It should be." She turned to Tauriel, who lingered in some pretence of guardianship. "I need to talk to them alone, okay? I won't stab anybody, I promise."

Tauriel gave Thranduil an uncertain look, but left when he nodded.

"Here's the thing," Sharley said, as soon as the door was shut. She swung the sword off her back and laid it on the table, and Thranduil eyed it warily. Galadriel was right – there was power in that weapon, despite its simplicity. "You're gonna get more strangers, but not right here. Have you got a map?"

Thranduil already didn't like where this was going, but he fetched one anyway, laying it out on the table.

"All right, I know you've got at least one already in Rivendell," she said. "There'll be more soon enough, all already related in circumstance, if not blood, but there might be others. There's one potentiality where half the Institute survivors get dumped there, but that's only one out of four."

"Potentiality?" Thranduil asked.

"_Survivors?_" Lorna demanded.

"The Institute kinda fell apart after Von Ratched disappeared," Sharley said. "The inmates turned on the staff, and it eventually burned down."

Lorna winced, but Thranduil said again, "Potentiality? What does that mean?"

"It means -" She paused, clearly searching for words. "The future's not set," she tried again. "There are almost always a few different ways it might go, and often a lot more. There's a one in four shot that Elrond's gonna get a lot more houseguests than he's used to." Her eyes flicked to Galadriel. "Right now, you've got five to one on defeating Sauron, but if Thorvald gets here first, you're done to one out of two."

That made little sense to Thranduil, but Galadriel said, "You see them, do you not? These…potentialities?"

Sharley sighed. "What might be, what _will_ be – not that I often know the difference – what is and what could be, what was and what might have been. Past's not important right now, but the present is. Lorna, you're not allowed to die – I'm gonna need you later."

Now it was Lorna who sighed. "Everyone keeps ordering me not to die," she grumbled. "Unless you can give me immortality, shut it."

Sharley's piercing gaze focused into something diamond-sharp and unnervingly intense. "Funny you should say that."

Lorna paled, and Thranduil felt his heart lurch. "What," she said, no question in her tone.

"It's not really immortality. I wouldn't wish _that_ on anybody," Sharley said, more than a little bitterly. "In the timeline that should have been, I realized when your children were eight that I'd need your help someday, but I didn't – don't – know when. I froze your Time, so that you wouldn't grow old and die before I could actually use you."

"You can _do_ that?" he demanded, uncertain if he should be hopeful or horrified.

Those disturbing eyes found his. "I can do a lot of things," she said. "Big stuff tends to blow up in my face, but small things like this work fine."

Thranduil did not consider halting someone's aging a 'small thing', but if she spoke the truth – if she really could do it – perhaps he need not fear losing Lorna so soon.

Lorna herself looked deeply unsettled. "I actually let you do that?"

"Well, I didn't tell you at first," Sharley admitted "You or Ratiri, since I had to do it to both of you. In that timeline, that universe, you two and the twins were like family to me. By the time you figured it out, you understood."

She turned to Thranduil. "Gandalf'll be back here tomorrow," she said. "Get him to do whatever it is he needs to do, and then he's got to go get Bilbo." She smiled, a strange and horrible smile. "You can't go with them to Mordor, Lorna, but _I_ can."

On the surface, that sounded like a wonderful idea – a creature who could not be killed to escort the Ring. There was, however, one very large problem. "Tell me, Sharley," Thranduil said, giving her a hard stare, "what makes you think you can resist the temptation of the Ring?"

A strange, weary grief crossed her face. "It can't give me any of the things I want," she said. "If it _could_, then yeah, I'd be in trouble, but the few things I would want that sort of power for are beyond it. You don't need to worry about that."

Strangely, he believed her. Sharley was odd and broken and dangerous, but even now he sensed no evil in her.

"I'll stay 'til Lorna has those kids," she said, looking at the woman in question. "Can't freeze you before then, or you'll stay pregnant forever."

Lorna shuddered. "No thank you."

For the first time in months, Thranduil had something like real hope. The Ring would have two powerful guardians, and perhaps, just perhaps, he need not fear losing Lorna so very soon.

* * *

In Lorna's canon, Sharley did indeed freeze both her and Ratiri, though nobody figured it out for a good twenty years.

Title means "Time" in Irish. As always, reviews are made of wonder.

Guest: Thank you for pointing out that plot-hole. I've fixed it now.

Hikarushinyi: Lorna's half an inch below five feet tall. She's tiny.


	42. Saolú

In which the twins arrive, after a fashion, Gandalf heads out to collect Bilbo, and our intrepid herd realizes that their little reprieve is almost over.

* * *

Mithrandir's arrival set off a flurry of activity. He spent the next week working closely with Ratiri, developing the tools to distil oxygen and store blood. Arandur again found himself drafted for translation duties, though by now the wizard spoke English as well as he did.

They raced as fast as they could, and then Mithrandir was off, headed south and west to the Shire. Spring had arrived in earnest, so the sons of Elrond went with him to warn their father of the potential of many impending guests.

Now that Sharley was on hand, the King was no longer utterly terrified of Lorna leaving the healing wards, but her discomfort was growing so great that she didn't want to. By the time another fortnight had passed, she could no longer see her feet, and could go from laughter to tears to rage inside of ten minutes.

"Hormones," Sharley said. "That'll stick around for a while even after the kids are born."

He looked at Lorna, seated on the floor of the room that had been taken over for their various small councils. She was crying and smashing glass with a hammer – one of the few physical outlets for her wrath she was allowed. No doubt she'd be smiling and sunny within the next quarter of an hour, until the cycle began again. "Are all Edain women like this, when they are with child?"

"Some are more extreme than others, but yeah, kinda. I wasn't _this _bad with Marty, but I was still pretty bad."

Marty herself often stayed with Lorna, when she wasn't running around terrorizing everyone she could find. She seemed to enjoy pestering Ratiri, who was endlessly patient with her. Now _there _was a man who ought to have had children of his own.

In distracting half of those who lived in the halls, she kept poor Galion from being completely inundated with questions about Lorna's pregnancy, but there were still plenty of queries. Arandur had to field more than a few himself, since it was well-known he was her friend. All he – and everyone else – would say was that in Ireland, women did not speak of their pregnancies until the child was safely born, lest they curse themselves. It was utter nonsense, but the Edain of Middle-Earth were known to be superstitious. It was no great stretch to assume those of Lorna's world were as well.

Sharley came and went, often wandering into the forest with her sword. She never said what she did out there, and none dared ask, but apparently the spider populations were greatly diminished. Though she was undeniably helpful, the only people who voluntarily stayed in her presence for long were her daughter, Geezer, and Lorna, but Lorna's mind wandered ever more often the closer her due date, as Ratiri called it, came.

She was lucid enough, however, when her birth-pains started – two weeks early.

Nobody was with her when they began, for she'd chased everyone away, claiming she needed a nap. Arandur sat outside her door with a book, while the King paced like a restless animal. He didn't at all appreciate being ordered away, but Arandur wasn't surprised she'd done so – he'd been hovering like a mother hen with one chick. Arandur was, however, surprised that he'd actually done as he was told.

It certainly made being near him nerve-wracking, however. The King was intimidating at the best of times, but just now, frustrated and worried as he was, he was terrifying. Arandur would have fled, if he hadn't promised Lorna he'd stay near.

A muffled curse of, "Ow, fuck" sounded through the door, freezing the King mid-step. Then, "Oh, _fuck_", the two syllables heavy with fear.

Arandur scrambled out of the way as the King shoved the door open, nearly getting himself kicked in the process. When he stood and looked into the room, he saw Lorna standing next to her bed, right hand on her abdomen, panic etched across her face.

"Either I've pissed myself, or my water's broken," she said, wincing. "It's too bloody early for this."

Arandur didn't wait for the King to order him to fetch Lady Galadriel. He flew down the corridor as fast as his feet would carry him.

* * *

Lorna really, really wished she could believe she'd just wet her pants, but the great, dragging pains in her abdomen made that impossible. There'd been no warning, either – one moment she'd been merely uncomfortable, but the next she'd been hit with a terrible cramp.

Panic seized her heart and squeezed it as she zombie-staggered her way to Thranduil. It was too early – not by much, but enough that she might be about to deliver two babies who would die after their first breath. If they even _took _a first breath. Her knickers and legs were soaked with warm liquid that reminded her way too much of the bout of bleeding she'd suffered months ago.

Thranduil caught her when she staggered, lifting her as gently as he probably could. They'd set up one of the bathing-rooms as a delivery center, since there was a ready supply of hot water. They hadn't thought they'd be _using _it any time soon, though.

Pain clawed at her again, and it was a damn good thing he had hold of her, because she probably would have fallen otherwise. It felt like someone was trying to saw her open from the inside out – great, tearing, burning waves of absolute agony. Fresh panic surged through her, and her vision suddenly darkened.

No, not her vision – the lamp on the wall ahead of them had gone out, metal crumpling as though rushed by an iron glove. The one behind them shattered, glass tinkling as it hit the floor, and Lorna screamed, as much from rage as from pain and fear. She couldn't even control her goddamn telekinesis, and sure _Christ, _was childbirth _meant _to feel like this? If so, she wondered why the hell any woman would have more than one.

"I'll kill you," she ground between her teeth, gathering a fistful of Thranduil's blond hair and giving it a savage yank. "This was your bloody idea. _This is your bloody fault, you twat!_" She was in no condition at all to acknowledge the fact that she hadn't exactly objected. All he'd had to do was the fun part – _she _was the one who had to actually suffer through this nightmare of a pregnancy, which only enraged her further. It was all she could do not to punch him in the throat. If she hurt, he should, too.

* * *

Dread gripped Ratiri as he hurried to the healing wards. Arandur, having sent Galadriel on ahead of him, insisted that Lorna was about to have those twins, whether anyone liked it or not. And Ratiri dreaded it because, unless Elf-children were immeasurably hardier than human, those babies were going to die, and there was nothing he or anyone else could do about it. The oxygen they'd so carefully bottled, the makeshift incubators – none of it would be worth anything. All he could do now was try to save Lorna.

Lorna, who certainly seemed lively enough when he entered the delivery room. She'd made it to the bed, at least, but she was still sitting up, gripping Thranduil's collar with her right hand and cussing him out like a sailor. _That _had to be a good sign – she was very much herself.

"She will not stop," Galasríniel said, leading him to the sink to scrub down. "The number of things she has threatened to shove up the King's rectum is horrifying, but at least her fëa is strong. The trouble is that, though her waters have broken, she is nowhere near prepared to actually birth those children." Her words were all mixed with Sindarin, but Ratiri understood well enough.

"If the children were viable, I would not say this," he said, scouring his arms with the lavender-scented soap, "but I need the tool the smiths made – the forceps."

"What do you mean, not viable?" she asked, rinsing her hands.

"It's too soon, Galasríniel," he said, hating every word of it. "We were taking a huge risk at twenty-four weeks. At twenty-two, they barely count as babies. Their lungs can't even really process oxygen yet. Unless Elf-children are far hardier than human, they're going to die."

"Elf-children _are _hardy," she insisted, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself more than him. If the thought helped her, she might as well hang onto it while she could.

There were by now far too many people in the delivery room – healers, yes, but also Katje, Marty, and a terrifying blue-haired woman who lurked out of the way in a corner. None save Katje really needed to be here, but Marty wouldn't be budged, and he didn't even want to _try _to deal with the creepy woman.

Several healers were laying out the oxygen tanks and masks, while others brought bags of plasma to thaw. It wouldn't thaw soon enough to be of immediate use, which was probably why Katje was here.

"Anesthetic," he ordered Galasríniel. No matter how these children were delivered, whether naturally or by forceps, Lorna did not need to be coherent for it.

"That is unnecessary." Galadriel glided through the door behind him like a ghost, moving on silent feet to stand on Lorna's other side. She said something in the Elves' language, and the churning red and grey of Lorna's aura calmed a little. She still looked ready to throttle Thranduil, but less like she would actually do it.

"All right," he said grimly, wishing like hell that he had something even remotely resembling latex gloves. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Something was amiss, but Von Ratched had no idea what it was. And oh, how he _hated _that.

None of the minds he touched had any inkling of it, consciously or otherwise – and he had touched a great many minds. Spring came early in Gondor, and Minas Tirith was something of a trading hub: people traveled here from all over Middle-Earth, and he planted mental seeds in a few from every place. Rohan, Dol Amroth, the lands of Anorien – even a few from the southern lands, who in fifty years would be _personae non grata_. _They _were more difficult, however, because he did not speak their language. So far as he knew, Tolkien had never actually developed it.

But that was of little consequences. Instinct told him the disturbance had to come from the north, from Erebor and Mirkwood, which were also the only lands this side of the Misty Mountains who had not sent tradesmen. He did not think that was a coincidence.

He would send some of his own people there, to see what might be seen. It was unlikely they would return alive, so he had to choose a few who were more expendable than others. If that damnable Elvenking was distracted, perhaps he would be less of a threat.

* * *

Thranduil was most certainly distracted right _now_. Legolas's birth had been nowhere near this difficult, or this _loud_. Though Galadriel was doing what she could to ease Lorna's pain, Lorna was still not remotely happy, and was letting everyone know in no uncertain terms. She gripped his hand so hard that had he been Edain, she very likely would have broken at least one of his fingers.

He would rather have her thus, though, than fearing the almost inevitable death of one or both of their children. That was not a thing she needed to think of while she was already in so very much pain. If causing him physical harm kept her focused on something else, she could break his neck and he wouldn't protest.

It felt like it had gone on for eternity, though it was only an hour. Ratiri, for whatever reason, seemed reluctant to use the forceps, which did not fill Thranduil with any manner of confidence.

"Lorna," Ratiri said, something akin to despair in his voice, "I need you to hold very still."

Lorna nodded, her eyes shut in desperation. She tried and failed to bite back a scream as Ratiri did whatever it was he was doing with that unpleasant instrument – Thranduil couldn't watch, any more than Lorna could have.

He did see Galasríniel hurry forward, towel at the ready, but Sharley gently shove her out of the way.

"What are you _doing_?" Ratiri demanded.

"I can't save these children," she said quietly, "but I can keep them from dying until you can."

"Let her, Ratiri," Thranduil said, surprising even himself. "Let her try." There could be no harm in it, and he had no idea what else they were to do.

This was not simple, but neither was it the most difficult thing Sharley had ever done. When Ratiri handed her the first infant, so tiny he could fit in the palm of her hand, she brushed her fingers over his head.

Everything, animate and inanimate, was wound about with threads of Time, each part of the massive tapestry of endless potentialities. They moved and shifted, swooping and diving but never tangling, affecting and affected by the greater lines of the world's Time.

The older a thing was, the more difficult it was to freeze – a person's history was more complex than most realized, since it contained not only what _had _been, but what _might _have been. This little creature had no history at all, which allowed her to suspend not just his present, but his future. He didn't try to draw breath because he didn't yet need to; his unfinished organs didn't have to labor to sustain him. The delicate threads of his Time were still, leaving him with a cocoon only she could see.

"He is not breathing," Ratiri said, giving the healer a panicked look.

"He doesn't have to," Sharley said, very carefully handing the infant to the hovering healer. "Not until you figure out how to let him do it safely. Now gimme the other one."

Ratiri did, possibly because he was too stunned to do anything else. The little girl was even tinier than her brother, and so very, very fragile. If nothing else, Sharley could keep them both from shattering until the people who knew what they were doing could come up with something.

"They'll be fine, for now," she said, handing the little girl over as well. "Lorna, you've got a son and a daughter, but you can't hold 'em just yet." Her eyes went to Thranduil, who was even paler than ordinary, his eyes filled with strain and fear. "You two have something else to worry about right now. Bard and Dain have to be warned about Von Ratched and Thorvald. These babies'll keep until it's safe for 'em to unfreeze; right now, you need to meet up with the people outside your kingdom."

"What the hell'v you done to my kids?" Lorna demanded, a little woozily.

Very carefully, Sharley lifted the little boy from the bassinet. "They're outside of Time," she said, cradling him in her palm as she brought him to Lorna. "They're not fully cooked, so to speak, but right now they don't have to be. They can stay like this, until the healers figure out what they're doing."

Lorna stared at him, this creature so small he could not even properly be called an infant. Her expression was filled with the wonder common to new mothers, but Thranduil's was quite different. He looked not at the baby, but at Sharley, his pale eyes wary in a way she was all too familiar with. It was one thing to be told what she could do, and quite another to see it. He would never trust her, no matter how much good she did him, but she was used to that, too. Even humans sensed there was something wrong about her, but Elves could _see _it.

"Rest, Lorna," she said, carrying the miniscule child back to his basket. "Rest and heal, and then accept the fact that you and Thranduil are frigging married. You're gonna have to tell everyone before you go meet with Bard and Dain."

"Who says we are _going _anywhere?" Thranduil asked, an edge to his voice.

Sharley gave him a Look with a capital L. "_I _do. I know Gandalf and Bilbo won't be here 'til autumn, but we've gotta have everything in place by then, and you and Lorna have to head for Gondor before summer hits. There's no efficient form of travel in this damn world, so we need to get it in gear now. The only thing I know for sure is that Von Ratched's influence is spreading – and before you ask, no, I can't stop him. I'm not a telepath. All I could do is kill him, but we'll need him later."

"So Aelis said," Thranduil said, more than a little grimly.

"Of course she did. She's no dummy." Sharley looked at Galadriel. "There's shit I've gotta do, but I'll come back before you leave." She was out the door before anyone could question her.

* * *

Lorna didn't realize she'd fallen asleep until she woke, and then she had no idea how long she'd _been _asleep. The agony had dulled to vague soreness, so it had probably been a while. She was warm and clean, though the bed as strange. The lamps were out, and the fire burned low, so she couldn't tell if she recognized this room or not.

There was a basket beside the bed, and she struggled to sit up enough to look into it. The tiny creatures it contained barely even looked like babies – and they _were _tiny. They seemed more like two dolls than anything living.

"I know you said you favored Saoirse for a girl, but we never spoke of a boy's name."

Lorna jumped, and nearly smacked Thranduil with her elbow when she turned to face him. Somehow, she'd entirely missed the fact that he lay beside her. "Bell, Thranduil," she said, trying to calm her pounding heart. "I am gluing a bell to your back, so you can't pull it off." She couldn't help smiling as she said it, though. They were _parents_, albeit parents to children suspended in time. She didn't know if she was elated or terrified.

He gave her a smirk, though it lacked most of its customary smugness. "You underestimate my flexibility."

She arched an eyebrow, ignoring the heat in her face. "Actually, I don't," she said blandly. "I know exactly where you can't reach."

His sudden look of discomfort made her burst out laughing, and she rested her forehead on his shoulder. "Your face," she said. "I don't think I'll ever forget the _first _time I made you make that face."

He wrapped his arm around her. "I still do not know why anyone would even think of fornicating with a goat. Or a sheep. Or any other animal."

Lorna leaned back enough to look up at him, as innocently as she could. "Shepherds get lonely too," she said solemnly.

She could tell Thranduil was trying not to laugh, but the attempt only succeeded for half a second. Might as well make that worse. "There's a country called Wales that's not too far from Ireland, relatively, and one'v the things that's said about it is, 'Wales: Where men are men, and sheep are afraid."

To her absolute delight, that only made him laugh harder. He actually seemed as young as he looked, when he laughed. "Repeat that when Dain has a mouthful of ale," he said. "Sharley, unfortunately, is right – we must warn him, and Bard." He rested his chin on the crown of her head. "We must also finally tell people we are married. Does that still annoy you?"

"Not anymore," she said, and was surprised to find that she actually meant it. "It's still not how I would've gone about things, but I doubt that'd be anybody's preference. Though the first person to make a snarky comment's going to get my boot up their arse, and I'll warn you now, I don't know how Bard and Dain will take this. They both know I ran from you, though I don't think anyone told them why."

Thranduil tensed, his arm tightening around her waist. "Lorna, you know I can never fully make amends for what I did," he said.

"We're a bit beyond that now," she said, rather than acknowledge that he was right – there really was nothing he could do. That was forever going to sit there; the best they could do was try to ignore it, and hope it kept working. "But I doubt they'll see it that way. This might take more diplomacy than either one'v us is capable of."

"I _am _a king," he pointed out.

Lorna looked up at him. "You're also rude and creepy. Bring Lady Galadriel, if she'll come. Maybe, if we're lucky, we can get through this without attempted murder on anyone's part."

"I would not hold my breath on that," he said, even as she yawned. "Go back to sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa. When you have rested, we will find some way of making our announcement."

"Just have to be blunt about it," she said, shutting her eyes and curling up like a cat, head under his chin again. "No point in trying to do otherwise. Drop the bomb, make sure the kids're in good hands, and head for Dale." She didn't dare name them yet – didn't dare to really think of herself as a parent in more than an abstract sense. If she did, and she lost them, it would destroy her. She wanted to trust Sharley, but she barely knew the woman.

_Tomorrow_, she thought. _Deal with it tomorrow._

* * *

So the twins have entered the world (kind of). Lorna and Thranduil, being, well, Lorna and Thranduil, of course aren't going to announce their marriage in any kind of conventional way. They've got actual important things to do, after all.

Title, appropriately, means "Birth" in Irish

As always, reviews make my day. And week.


	43. Ar Aghaidh

In which they are off to Dale, Bard and Dain wonder if Thranduil is still secretly a crazypants, and everybody is glad for a chance to get _outside _again.

* * *

Much though Thranduil didn't want to leave Lorna the next morning, he had far too much to do. No longer was he anxiously holding his metaphorical breath; his children were born, if not in any conventional way, and Lorna was well on her way to recovery. Life could resume again, so resume it did, with a vengeance.

Royal visits were not minor affairs. While Bard would not stand on ceremony if he could at all avoid it, Dain would, and so the Woodland Realm and its emissaries always put on an elaborate show. There was not enough time to plan the usual spectacle, but that was likely a good thing; if the Elves were willing to forego pageantry, it meant things were serious.

He let Galion see to what was left of his wardrobe, knowing there was no time to have anything new made. Lorna needed at least one actual dress, whether she liked it or not – fortunately, there were still a few of Tauriel's childhood gowns lying around. Most of the time she could get away with her preferred trousers and tunics, but if Dain threw a feast – and of course he would – she'd need something finer.

Ordinarily, his retinue would largely be made up of nobility (and he would still have to take a few, for form's sake), but this time he would predominately bring guards and soldiers. Bard would trust his word if he said the situation would sooner or later be dire, but Dain wouldn't. Nobles he would scoff at; soldiers, likely not.

On the other hand, he might trust Lorna. According to Arandur, the Dwarf-king had taken a liking to her, in no small part thanks to her capacity for drink. Perhaps her word would carry weight where Thranduil's would not – Thranduil's, or even Galadriel's. They might be even less likely to have faith in her than in him, because she was very powerful, and they knew it.

Gifts would need to be brought – but again, there was a distinct lack of time in which to craft them. Arandur, who was fast becoming an invaluable aide to Galion, hit upon a very pithy suggestion: oxygen tanks. They had dozens of the things, and they could always craft more later.

"Even King Dain might find them a wonder, my lord," he said. "We could teach him to craft the canisters, though without Mithrandir's aid, they cannot make the oxygen themselves."

"Make them ready," Thranduil said "Decorate them, if you can."

He still did not know how to announce his marriage – gathering a group would waste their precious time, and he didn't trust Lorna not to laugh at what were sure to be the closest to gobsmacked expressions Elves were capable of. He would let those who already knew announce it for him, and content himself with startling everyone in view when Lorna was near. No doubt she would find it equally amusing.

There was also the small matter of Marty and Sharley, the living dead girl and the…whatever her mother was. Marty could come as a nasty shock at first, though not nearly as much so as Sharley, for all there was nothing visibly wrong with her. Bringing _them _was likely a spectacularly bad idea, but it was better than leaving them to roam his halls in his absence.

Could any of their resident Edain ride horses? He thought it somewhat unlikely, given the prevalence of cars in their world. Fortunately, most Elven horses needed no direction from their riders, but the Elves used neither saddle nor bridle. It was possible one or all of them would need to ride in the carts. It might also be that they would not allow Sharley anywhere near them – if spiders fled from her, horses would likely bolt as well. At least, if Arandur was to be believed, she needed neither sleep nor rest.

When he finally returned to Lorna's room, he found her up, dressed, and eating a bowl of stew. She was still too pale, but other than that, she seemed remarkably well.

"We leave tomorrow, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, running his fingers through her tangled hair. He'd swear the silver in it had advanced, impossible though that surely was.

She looked up at him. "_Tomorrow?_" she asked. "How the hell could we be ready by then?"

"Elvish efficiency," he said, fetching a brush. "Your hair really _is _Cthulu."

"Told you," she said, and looked at the bassinet. "I don't want to leave them so soon. I know they're basically frozen lima beans with arms and legs who can't hear a damn thing I say, but still."

Thranduil snorted, teasing at the snarls at the ends of her hair. "A rather evocative description, yet strangely apt. Nothing will happen to them while we are away."

"You'd better be right," she sighed. "How are we going to tell people about the whole 'marriage' thing?"

"Simply let word spread. It will become common knowledge when we reach Dale." He smiled, though she couldn't see him. "I have no intent of _telling _any of them at first, either. Let them try to work it out on their own."

Lorna tilted her head back to look at him, eyebrows raised. "You're evil."

He gave her his haughtiest look. "If you have not figured that out by now, I must revise my opinion of your intelligence."

Her eyes narrowed. "One'v these days, I'll make good on my threat about your eyebrows," she said, obviously striving for a straight face. "Either that or I'll braid tiny bells in them, and kill two birds with one stone."

Thranduil would have laughed, if he wasn't quite sure she'd actually try it. "We will be the subject of much attention tomorrow, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "Try not to let it bother you."

Now it was Lorna who snorted. "It'll take more than that to unsettle me," she said. "So far, the only thing that's ever embarrassed me in my life is you. Though I'm warning you now, if anybody asks how we wound up married, I'm telling the truth."

"That would certainly cause a great deal of talk." He couldn't bring himself to mind.

* * *

The next morning dawned clear and chilly, the heavy dew sparkling like diamonds.

It had been so long since Lorna had been outside that blue of the sky almost overwhelmed her. She stood still a moment, breathing in the fresh air, glad she'd worn her heaviest cloak. The sun had only just crested the horizon, the eastern sky still streaked with pink and gold.

Galasríniel had given her a potion to ease the lingering pain, so she was only a little sore as she wandered through the crowd. The Elves were indeed very efficient, loading horses and carts without a single wasted movement.

True to Thranduil's words, she received a great many looks, both startled and curious. Nobody had yet _asked _anything, but she knew it was only a matter of time.

She found Geezer, Katje, and Ratiri huddled in a knot, with both men eying the horses with obvious unease. Katje, garbed in a fantastic cloak of blue and gold, looked perfectly calm, as well as unfairly gorgeous. Seriously, if Lorna swung that way, she'd have climbed Katje like a tree. "I take it you can actually ride one of these?"

"I ride many things," Katje said innocently. Ratiri choked on a laugh, and Geezer shut his eyes in silent pain.

"Lass, can you say _anything_ that isn't a double-entendre?" he asked.

"I do not know," she said thoughtfully. "I have never tried."

Ratiri rolled his eyes. "Will you be all right, riding a horse so soon after birth?"

"If the healers didn't think so, I doubt they'd let me. I don't think we'll be going very fast."

"You do not need a horse. You have the elk."

Lorna jumped, and she wasn't the only one. "_Bell_, Thranduil," she said, turning to face him. "One'v these days you'll get to see what heart failure looks like in a human. And there is no way I'm riding that thing again – it's _way _too big."

"It is also much smoother to ride than horse or cart," he pointed out. "I will not let you fall."

"If I do, I'm taking you with me," she warned, knowing already there was no point in arguing with him. He was in full King Mode, which was something she had rarely seen, and she had to admit that he carried it off well – he'd intimidate the shit out of anyone who didn't know him as well as she did. What an odd pair they'd make – him, tall and forbidding and, she had to admit, quite pretty, and her, a tiny human who couldn't intimidate a damn thing unless she was really angry. Talk about a mismatch. She was sure plenty of people _would _talk, too. Fortunately, she didn't particularly care.

With a sigh, she followed him to the elk, who stood patiently waiting. No matter what Thranduil said, she was pretty sure it _was _twelve feet tall, and when he'd boosted her up onto it, she clung to its fur like a barnacle.

"You need not pull the poor creature's hair out," he said, once he'd swung himself up behind her.

"I'd rather not tip over and break my neck," she retorted.

"I told you I would not let you fall," he said, wrapping his right arm around her waist. "And while I know you do not need them, I have brought a bag of handkerchiefs, just in case. Never let it be said I cannot learn."

Lorna burst out laughing, and really _would _have fallen if not for his hold on her. "Smart man. Elf. You know what I mean."

The elk started off, moving at a sedate enough pace that her stomach didn't lurch. The rest of the cavalcade followed, Elves chattering away like melodious blue jays. Lorna paid them little mind – she was too busy drinking in the sunrise with shameless greed. The damp earth smelled of spring, clean and alive, and though the faint breeze was cold on her face, she relished it. The caves might be beautiful, but she'd never wanted to go so long without seeing the outdoors again. She'd kill all the spiders with a flamethrower if she had to, so that her children could play outdoors.

Her children. She still feared to think about them too much, though she knew everyone was wondering why the babies weren't along for the ride. Thranduil would field those questions, if anyone dared ask.

Further back down the line, she could hear Katje admonishing Ratiri and Geezer: "Sit up _straight_, not like sack of potatoes. You are on animal, not chair. Support your weight with your knees and horse will be happy."

"Not sure _I _will be," Geezer grumbled.

"You must learn balance. It is easier with saddle. You must think of horse as part of you."

Ratiri sighed. "Katje, I never, ever thought I would say this, but I have to: that's what she said."

Lorna utterly lost it, laughing so hard she nearly cried. "Technically, that _is _what she said," she called back to them.

"The four of you are bad enough," Thranduil complained. "What in Eru's name am I to do if _more _of you turn up?"

"Think'v yourself as an anthropologist," she said, "studying a new and unknown culture."

"But your culture is _not _unknown to me," he pointed out. "It is simply strange, and often aggravating."

"Then I suppose you'll just have to be aggravated. And just think – you've got three more days'v this."

"Oh joy," he deadpanned, so dryly that she cracked up all over again.

* * *

Given Bard's last interaction with King Thranduil, he was far from thrilled by the prospect of facing him again.

Granted, the messenger who had all but flown to Dale had assured him that the King was no longer…unstable, but still. The expression that had lurked in those pale eyes had given Bard more than one nightmare since that frigid day – and there was, of course, also the matter that Thranduil had actually broken into Dale and kidnapped one of its newer citizens.

At least Lorna and the Elves were also apparently well. Though they had been irritating to house simply thanks to their number, Bard would never have wished ill on any of them, and he'd feared the worst when she was taken and all her companions chased after her. Elves supposedly did not harm one another, but at that point, he would not have put it past Thranduil to kill them all.

King Dain sent out several ravens to scout, and when they returned, Bard and both girls beat a hasty path to Erebor.

"It seems as though they come in all good faith," Dain grunted, pouring ale for all. He sounded like he rather wished it were otherwise. "No armor, no weapons but what's prudent to carry. All the mortal Men and Elves that stayed with you over the winter – whatever this is, it's not an attack."

_Bard _was relieved by that, and he was sure that, deep down, Dain was, too. "It is not like the Elves, though, to give so little warning. Something is amiss, or they would not be on the move so soon after their messenger."

"And yet they do not hurry," Sigrid said.

"There's no point sending out riders to greet them," Bard sighed. "Thranduil will say nothing until he wishes, even if he _isn't _still somewhat mad." Bard wasn't certain he wanted to know what had happened, when those of his temporary household returned to the Woodland Realm. It would seem it had been nothing dire, and he wondered _why_. Surely Thranduil could not have been so thoroughly cured of his madness in so short a time.

Well, there was no stopping their coming in any way that wouldn't end in disaster, so he might as well make ready to receive them all. It wouldn't be the largest delegation he'd ever hosted, but neither was it small. Knowing the Elves, they would prefer to pitch tents rather than be quartered indoors, so the fields would need to be mowed, and the large well uncovered. A tributary to the River Running flowed past them, but it was rushing and swollen with snowmelt, the banks treacherously slippery, possibly even for an Elf. The streets needed to be cleaned, and the banners hung. Whatever Thranduil felt the need to tell them so urgently had better be worth it.

* * *

By the time they halted for the night, Lorna's painkiller potion had worn off, and she was not a happy bunny. When Thranduil helped her down from the elk, she almost couldn't walk, but she'd be damned if she'd let herself be carried in front of this many people. She staggered over to sit on a log, waiting for the tents to be set up.

"Drink this," Thranduil said, handing her a bottle. "Why did you not say anything earlier?"

"I didn't think it was this bad earlier," she said, gulping the spicy liquid. "I was sitting still, more or less. Feels like someone kicked me in the snatch with one'v my old boots."

Thranduil didn't laugh, but she knew him well enough to know he wanted to. It rose in his eyes, but not an ounce of it spilled over. "Finish that bottle. It will cure you of that ailment, and many others."

"I'm sure it will." It certainly made her sinuses sting like a bastard. She watched the sun set, listening to the burble of the river while the Elves set about making camp. The scent of smoke soon joined the smell of earth and damp rock, and she smiled, content simply to take it all in.

Geezer, Ratiri, and Katje soon joined her, two of whom were limping badly. Katje didn't seem fazed at all, but Geezer and Ratiri had clearly not enjoyed their first day on horseback. Not that Lorna could blame them, either; it didn't take much work to stay on the elk. Riding a horse with no saddle would probably be a lot more difficult, and take a lot more effort just to stay mounted.

"Here," she said, handing the bottle to Geezer. "Pass it around. I'm not totally sure what's in it, but it works a treat for post-childbirth pain. Pretty sure it'd be good for saddle-soreness, too."

"You'd need a saddle for that," he muttered, taking a pull off the bottle before passing it to Ratiri, who took a long swallow and sighed.

"I miss cars," he said. "I'd even take a bicycle over this. A mountain bike would work on this terrain."

"You are both pansies," Katje said, snatching the bottle. "You knock my profession, Geezer, but who is one who will sleep tonight without sore backside? Not you."

"Oh, hush, and gimme that back." Geezer scowled at her, reaching, but she didn't hand the bottle over right away.

"I could sleep for the next week," Lorna said. "I didn't even have to do much but stay on the elk, and I'm still exhausted."

"You did just give birth two days ago," Ratiri pointed out. "That does tend to take the energy out of a person. How are your stitches?"

"I have stitches?" That was news to her.

He sighed again. "_Elves_. Yes, you do, and they should have told you. Did they send any medical supplies with you?"

"Yeah," she said, giving her pack a nudge with her boot. "I'm meant to do a bit'v washing-up down below every morning and evening. Nobody said anything about _stitches_, though." She shuddered. There were some places needles just did not belong.

"They'll need to be taken out in two weeks. It's also six weeks until you can resume, er, marital…activities." Even in the dying light of the sunset, she could see his face redden.

"I thought doctors were supposed to be able to say that sort'v thing without blushing," she said, not bothering to mention that 'marital activities' had only happened once. She did _not _need Katje asking a billion and one questions, though she was sure she couldn't avoid that forever.

"I've discovered it's different when you actually know the people involved," he admitted.

"Is there anything _else _going on down there I should know about? Do I have to worry about spiders?"

Katje grimaced. "You are disgusting."

"In this world, it's a valid question," Lorna said. "You've not seen the ones in the woods."

"Still disgusting."

"You've no idea how right you are." Lorna yawned. The tents were up, and she could smell food cooking, but she was so tired that she might just skip dinner and sleep for the next twelve hours. "I need a nap," she said, rising. "G'night, guys."

"G'night, John-boy," Geezer said.

"Huh?"

"_The Waltons _never made it to Ireland?"

"Wouldn't know if they had. No TV when I was a kid."

"You missed out. Night, John-boy."

"Goodnight, you goober." Lorna headed for the tent, shivering. She doubted many of the Elves would sleep after only one day of traveling, but her cot was calling to her.

Thranduil was already in the tent, going over a roll of parchment with a glass of wine in his hand. "Are you feeling better?"

"Yeah," she said, crawling onto the cot. "I have stitches in my snatch and nobody told me."

He arched an eyebrow. "Would you have wanted to know?"

"I wish I didn't know _now_. Speaking of which, I've got to haul my sorry carcass off this cot and do some _washing_, if you take my meaning, so don't let anybody else in. Oh, and evidently we can't shag again for another six weeks."

She did it. She actually made Thranduil choke on his wine. At least she'd accomplished _something _today.

* * *

Well, the subject had to come up again sooner or later. Poor Bard – the last time he saw Thranduil, he was pretty sure he was going to get murdered. I can't blame him for being wary.

Title means "Forward" in Irish.

You know the drill: reviews feed both me and my brain.


	44. Míshuaimhneas

In which Legolas still doesn't know what to think, things get amusingly awkward between Lorna and Thranduil, Von Ratched has not been sitting around with his thumb up his ass, and Sharley senses that something is very, very wrong.

* * *

Legolas had no stomach for traveling amidst the crowd that day. He walked at the very end of the line, with Sharley and Marty.

It was rather _far _back, too, for Sharley made the horses very uneasy. She did not seem surprised, and he wondered what it must be like, to be feared by so many living things. Even he, who did not exactly _fear _her, found her presence uncomfortable, yet he walked with her anyway.

His grasp of English was too poor for him to properly speak with her, but that was fine; for now, he needed silence. Though the air was cool, the spring sunshine was warm on his face, and he could feel the awakening life surging beneath his feet.

He didn't want to resent his father's second, drunken marriage, but he could not help it. His few memories of his naneth were precious, and he felt that this spat upon her very memory.

He didn't blame Lorna. She did not know of Eldar customs, he had seen for himself how incredibly drunk she was that night, and his father, when he put his mind to it, could be very persuasive – though thought of his persuasiveness in _that _context made Legolas vaguely ill. His father was so tall, and Lorna so tiny, that he found himself wondering how that even _worked_, and he shuddered.

No, he didn't want to resent it, but resent it he did. He couldn't let on, either, because it would be unfair to Lorna, who didn't seem too pleased herself. Legolas might not be happy his father had married again, however accidentally, but marry he had, and everybody just had to make the best of it. Whether they wanted to or not.

"It will be well," Sharley said, her voice surprising him.

"How you know?" he asked, hunting for his broken English.

"I know many things, and I can tell you none of them. Just trust me, if you can. I know that's not easy," she said, giving him a crooked smile.

"It is not," he admitted. "But I try."

When they set up camp for the night, he wandered the length of the river, hoping she was right.

* * *

Lorna tried not to laugh. She really, really did, but Thranduil had spat wine all over his parchment, his pale eyes wide.

"I did not know that was any manner of option," he said, wiping his chin.

Truthfully, she hadn't thought of it either, and not just because she was pregnant and miserable. Sure, they were married, but it was an 'in name only' sort of thing. "Well, Ratiri didn't know any better," she said, suddenly feeling rather awkward. This whole thing had been a lot funnier without Thranduil staring at her.

"_Is _that an option?" he asked carefully.

"Do you _want _it to be?" If the answer was actually yes, she'd be very surprised. The one time, they'd both been very drunk, and had a goal in mind. It would never have occurred to her that he'd want a repeat, even if they were technically married. Lorna was perfectly comfortable in her own body, but she had no illusions about it: she was made of wiry muscle, with nary a curve to be found, her skin dotted with scars from a lifetime of misadventure and little worry about injury. Several of the ribs on her right side were distorted, having been broken and improperly set when she was a teenager, and the area that theoretically held a left boob had a particularly vicious, seven-inch scar she'd earned during a fight with a tweeker and his broken beer bottle. It hadn't seen stitches, though it should have, and she genuinely could not understand how anyone could find that appealing. Oh, Liam had, but Liam was _Liam_.

Thranduil, on the other hand, was irritatingly perfect, even with the scar she sometimes could and couldn't see. The contrast between them was fairly ludicrous, as even she would admit.

"Well – we _are _married," he said, and she hadn't heard him sound this discomfited since their agonizingly embarrassing morning after. It suddenly made sense, though.

"Thranduil, you don't owe me anything," she assured him. "I'm not gonna demand…wifely rights, or whatever. I don't want you to feel some customary pressure to offer something you don't want. That's just wrong, and actually illegal in many parts of Earth."

"Don't want – what in Eru's name made you think that?" he demanded, incredulous.

"Well…_duh_," she said, unable to actually use her words. "It's not like we got married on purpose, and you haven't exactly given me any indication you were interested."

"You've been with child and ill," he snorted. "I highly doubted you would have appreciated it. Lorna, even drunk, I would not have suggested our…solution…if I found you unattractive."

"Wait, _seriously_?" She wasn't sure if she should be flattered or creeped out. She was going to go with flattered, because she couldn't handle being creeped out right now. "I wouldn't have guessed that. In case you hadn't noticed, you're kind'v hard to read."

He smirked. "Yes, seriously, and I know. I've turned it into an art form, as your people might say. The real question, Dilthen Ettelëa, is whether or not _you _are interested." He laid his left hand on her shoulder, his fingers digging lightly into her shoulder blade, and her brain temporarily shut down. Goddammit.

Well, two could play that game. She reached up and ran her fingers over his right ear, and smirked herself when he shivered. "Ask me again in six weeks," she said innocently, and laughed at his glare.

* * *

The beginning of their trek the next morning was rather awkward, and made all the more annoying by the fact that Lorna couldn't let on.

Prior to Ratiri's remark, she really had never considered the possibility of future bedroom shenanigans, drunken or otherwise, and she _really _never would have suspected that Thranduil _had_. It made riding the elk with him rather more difficult, because she was aware of him now in a way she hadn't been the day before.

She'd always thought he was pretty, because duh, she had eyes, but as she'd told him months ago, all Elves were too pretty to be real, and he really was undeniably creepy. The first weeks after their ill-advised escapades had been painfully embarrassing, because, quite frankly, she couldn't stop picturing him naked, but she'd got over that. He was _Thranduil_, pretty but really irritating, even as she'd grown fond of him almost against her will.

She tried to focus on their surroundings instead – the budding trees, their delicate leaves only just unfurling, and the few wildflowers willing to brave the nightly chill. Yes, she was observing it all from far too high off the ground, but it was still pretty. The breeze off the lake might be cold, but the sun was warm, and eventually, in spite of her new and unwelcome awareness, she fell asleep.

_She was standing in Pike Place Market in Seattle, a Market as dead and deserted as everything else within the darkness. Ice made the brickwork beneath her feet treacherously slippery, and the gloom beneath the roof was even deeper than it was under the sky._

_It couldn't be a truly real dream, for here all the little stalls were still filled with ware, clothing and candles and little trinkets. Frozen fish sat on crushed ice at the fish-seller's stall, and across from it a jewelry booth remained filled with rings and necklaces, jade pendants and silver charms glinting in the dull light. The air wasn't still here - a faint breeze made necklaces and wind-chimes tinkle, cold breeze that cut through all her clothing like a knife. It was _wrong_ \- nobody would have left all this when they bugged out to the south. This couldn't be real, no matter how real it felt._

_But it was worse than that. Terrible as the sight of the Market so deserted was to her, it couldn't account for her feeling of complete and utter dread, fear so strong and all-encompassing it set her heart pounding, made icy sweat and goosebumps cover her skin. It was the irrational fear of a child convinced there were monsters under the bed, but she was sure it _wasn't_ irrational - she wasn't alone, she couldn't be, though there was nothing and no one within her sight. _Something _was watching her, pacing her as she walked all the space beneath the roof, boots slipping over the ice, and she didn't dare turn around for fear of what she might find behind her - but finally, through compulsion she couldn't fight, she did. And she froze._

_All down the walkway there were people - dozens, scores, silent and staring with eyes blank as a statue's. The nearest was scarcely four inches from her, a young, gaunt blonde woman with a garnet nose-ring and dead blue eyes. Cold though it was, no trace of breath rose from any of them, and from the woman all the way back to the Market's entrance there came no sound. The thought that they'd been so close behind her made Lorna shudder, horror beyond anything she could ever have imagined holding her utterly immobile. It was cold and it was still and oh God, there were so _many_ of them, watching, waiting for she didn't know what, more than close enough to touch her, and they had to be Memories, the things Sharley had warned of, but how? _How_? Seattle had been evacuated, hadn't it, long before the darkness reached it, so they shouldn't be here, not any let alone so many, and why couldn't she _move_? Why couldn't she run or wake up or even scream?_

_The blonde reached out to touch her, nails horribly sharp, and Lorna flinched but still couldn't move, couldn't draw away-_

She woke with a start, her heart seized by icy horror, and would have fallen off the elk if not for Thranduil's hold on her.

"What was it?" he asked quietly. "Another dream of what might have been?"

Lorna swallowed hard, her heart hammering with such force she thought it might break free from her chest. "Yes," she said in Irish, not wanting to let anyone else in on their conversation. "I think I know what Thorvald did. Will do, if he gets half a chance. Aelis was right – he's an ally we don't need Sauron to have." How had he done such a thing? The dream, unfortunately, had neglected to tell her.

What troubled her even more, however, was what _she _had been doing in the dream. She knew though she had not been told, that it was she and Von Ratched alone who marched through the darkness to face Thorvald. Darkness and cold and death and Memories – Memories, from Sharley's world. She and Sharley needed to have a very long talk.

"Show me," Thranduil said.

"Not right now," she said, fighting a shudder and losing. "We don't both need to be fucked up while we're twelve feet off the ground."

"We are not twelve feet off the ground."

"Close enough. Seriously, you don't want to know this yet. I'll show you when we stop for the night."

"I look forward to it," he said dryly.

"Trust me, you won't once you've seen it."

* * *

Lorna was not the only one who had been dreaming of what might have been.

Von Ratched was both disturbed and annoyed, which was never a good combination for anyone around him. It certainly hadn't ended well for a drunken pair of grooms who attempted to rob him one moonless night. Disposing of bodies was not as easy in such a medieval city as it was on Earth.

He'd seen visions of Thorvald, dreamt of fire and battle and death in the ruins of his Institute, and it irked him to know just what he would be facing, sooner or later. Probably sooner. Sauron was a massive threat, one he could never dream of facing on his own, but Thorvald was of Earth, and had, if the dreams were accurate, once been human.

Von Ratched was very, very good at killing humans.

Fortunately for the entirety of Middle-Earth, he'd had the instrument of Thorvald's demise on him when he was brought here. In the dream, Lorna's tiny, blood-smeared hand had brought his father's scalpel down into Thorvald's eyes, blinding him before slashing his throat.

It was possible that here in Middle-Earth, more weapons could be crafted that might actually be of use against the bastard. The magic here was not limited to curses or gifts. As he did not dare seek a wizard's help, he had taken to studying books containing all the known spells of Men, Elves, and Dwarves. If the Elves could craft magical weapons, he saw no reason why he could not as well.

He broke the scalpel into three pieces, reasoning that three weapons were better than one. If there was something contained within it that gave it the power to kill Thorvald, it would infuse the metal of a larger blade. He'd come much too far to have his plans spoiled by some fool from Earth with more power than sense.

* * *

Sharley was uneasy. That was something of a neat trick, considering how much it _took _to make Sharley uneasy.

It grew and festered as the day went on, and by evening it was unendurable. While it didn't seem like she was the only one, she doubted anybody else would feel it quite so strongly, because they wouldn't be able to recognize it for what it was. Something was disturbing the flow of this world's Time, and it wasn't her.

The sun was dying red in the west when she could take it no more. "Marty, stay with Legolas," she said. "I might be gone for a while."

Legolas must have gotten the gist of that, at least. "Where are you going?"

"Something's wrong," she said grimly. "I don't know what, and I don't know where, but I need to find it." She paused her search of the disturbed timeline, looking at him. "Does the name 'Angmar' mean anything to you?"

His eyes widened. He went to grab her wrist, and immediately recoiled. "Follow," he said.

"Horses," she pointed out. The poor critters were tired enough already – they didn't need to bolt thanks to her proximity.

He made a wordless growl of frustration, which was quite an odd thing to see, coming from an Elf. "Stay here," he said, and took off up the line.

"Must have meant _something_," she muttered.

_"__Duh." _That was Layla, one of the four voices Sharley had dubbed auditory satellites, that seemed to travel wherever she went. Layla was a childlike thing, in tone and personality. _"A name like that doesn't sound like a land of kittens and ponies."_

_"__Zombie kittens and ponies," _Jimmy said. While he too sounded young, he was a good deal more obnoxious than Layla, often without trying.

Legolas returned, Lady Galadriel, his father, and Lorna in tow – Sharley suspected that she was only there because she refused to be left behind.

"What must you know of Angmar?" Thranduil asked. He was even paler than usual, something Sharley would not have thought possible.

"Something's wrong there. _Time _is wrong there. I need to figure out what caused it, and I may be gone a while, so look after Marty, will you?"

"You cannot go alone," Galadriel said. She'd obviously picked up rather more English than Legolas.

Sharley smiled, though there was little humor in it. "I'm dead already, Lady Galadriel. There's nothing that can hurt me."

"There are worse things than Death," Galadriel said gravely.

"I know," Sharley said, and didn't bother elaborating on how, or why. "Trust me, but I'll be fine. I just need you to point me in the right direction."

"I will not point," Galadriel said. "I am going with you."

Sharley wanted to argue, but looking into those blue, blue eyes, she knew it would be pointless. Sharley, for all her power, was less than a century old, and seeing so much of Time was not the same as living through it. It would take a very, very long time to match Galadriel in wisdom, assuming she ever managed it at all. This was a battle she simply would not win, so she might as well stop trying.

"All right," she said. "But you need to listen to me when we're there. If I'm right – and about things like this, I usually am – you won't have seen anything like this before. You won't have any frame of reference for it, and I don't want that to get you killed."

"Lady Galadriel is rather difficult to kill," Thranduil said, arching an eyebrow.

The look Sharley shot him wasn't quite a glare, but it was close. "In my own world, I'm the next best thing to a god, and it killed _me_," she said flatly. "How d' you think I got these?" She held up her arms, their twisted scars clearly visible in the twilight. "It why Marty's a zombie. It's not Sauron, but as far as we're concerned, it doesn't need to be. _They _don't need to be."

"What are they?" Galadriel asked gently.

"Memories," Sharley said quietly. "In the Other, in my world, where enough people die in pain and fear and rage in one place, it…imprints. The soul of the place is poisoned, and sooner or later, Memories form."

Lorna twitched, her eyes widening, all the color draining from her face. "Memories," she repeated. "They look just like normal people, right? Except their eyes are so flat, and there's this horrible, crippling _terror_…."

Sharley went still. "How did you know that?"

"The dream," Lorna said, looking up at Thranduil. "What I didn't want to show you – in what might have been, on Earth, there were Memories. Thorvald had done it, somehow, he and the darkness he created. I dreamt I was in a city filled with them, and I knew they were called Memories, because the me in that timeline must've known. They kill you and they gain another Memory, right?"

Well, that was utterly horrific, and all but confirmed her fears. "Yes," Sharley said. Her eyes flicked from Lorna to Galadriel to Thranduil. "My question is, how many died in Angmar?"

Galadriel shut her eyes, while Thranduil somehow paled even further. "Hundreds of thousands," she said, little more than a whisper.

"Motherfucker," Sharley grumbled. This was absolutely going to suck, but she couldn't let herself contemplate failure. If she didn't go forward believing she'd succeed, she really _would _fail. "Well, there's a reason I brought this thing," she said, tapping the hilt of the sword behind her head. "And Elf-magic doesn't exist in the Other, so it's possible they're not immune to it. Can't hurt to try.

"What _is _that sword?" Thranduil demanded. "I have never felt its like."

"There isn't anything else like it. I borrowed it from my father, who's probably a bit peeved, because I didn't tell him I was doing it."

"Who's your father?" Legolas asked.

"That would be telling. C'mon, Lady Galadriel, if you're still determined to come. I hope you don't mind walking, 'cause the horses won't go near me." She looked at Thranduil and Lorna. "Nothing's getting outta Angmar." The words were not a promise – they were a statement, sent in stone, of what would and would not be.

"What if something does?" Thranduil asked.

"It won't. Y'all just keep doing what you were already gonna do. I don't know how long this'll take, but we'll meet up with you again when we're done." She hoped, oh how she hoped, that she wasn't going to get Lady Galadriel killed.

_"Because this is gonna end _so_ very well,"_ Jimmy muttered.

* * *

Because, you know, I can't just let things be adorable. Creepy has to get set in motion, too. I've spent the last fifteen chapters wanting to throw Galadriel at the Memories, because they will have no idea what hit them.

Title means "Unease" in Irish. As always, reviews are my lifeblood.


	45. Cuimhne

In which both Lorna and Thranduil are deeply disturbed, and she shares with him the memory of her first brush with the supernatural. (Or, How Lorna Met Sharley's Daddy And Didn't Know It.) This chapter is also rather long, but sometimes that happens.

* * *

Lorna was beyond troubled, and ate dinner in the tent rather than beside the fire.

She was becoming ever more convinced that she still didn't know how massive a bullet she'd dodged, when she crashed into Middle-Earth. Yes, she'd lost out on the family and friendships she would have had, but she'd also avoided getting raped and sucked into a magical war with zombies and Memories.

Then again, it was beginning to look like nobody was going to avoid the war. If there really were Memories here, would they be enough to stymie Sauron and Thorvald? From what her alter ego had known of them, they didn't serve anything but their own hunger. Throw a couple dozen into Mordor and Sauron might lose his minions. Granted, that meant there would just be more Memories, but still. At least he'd be unhappy.

Thranduil joined her while she was still picking at her roast chicken. He looked every bit as disturbed as she felt. "You need to show me your dream, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, sitting on the cot beside her.

"You're not going to enjoy this," she said, setting aside her plate. "Gimme your hand." While she didn't actually need to touch him, she thought it might be a comfort to them both. She didn't want to re-live it any more than she wanted to inflict it on him. Even if they'd still been at odds, she wouldn't want to inflict it on him, because the sense of utter horror carried within it was not something she would wish on _anybody_.

He did as instructed – Jesus, she always forgot how huge his hands were, compared to hers, and so much cooler. That thought tried to bring up _other _thoughts that would be of no help right now.

She shut her eyes, calling up the empty city, the dread as icy as the stones beneath her feet, the flat, frigid deadness of the air. That was bad enough in all conscience, but the Memories – oh God, the Memories. Even seen only in a dream, she would never forget the terror, the _wrongness _of them. She didn't want to know what they would be like in real life, and prayed she need never find out.

When she opened her eyes, she found Thranduil looked quite stricken, in his understated Elf way. He was certainly paler even than usual.

"I think that would've happened to half my world," she said, squeezing his hand. "In a way, it's almost a good thing that Thorvald's coming here. If Von Ratched and I really are the only ones who can kill him, he'd be uncontested on Earth. He'd destroy it, and there would be nothing anyone could do. At least in Middle-Earth we've got people like Lady Galadriel and Gandalf to get in his way."

He said nothing – just stared at her, to the point that she was starting to get creeped out. Had she just broken his brain? She knew he'd seen far worse things than that in the course of his very long life, unfortunately.

She actually waved her hand in front of his face. "Earth to Thranduil. It was just a dream. It wasn't rea –"

He cut her off when he yanked her close and kissed her, and okay, he hadn't just seemed good at that because she was drunk the last time. He was _really _good at it, and she found herself returning it without thinking, until she finally had to break away for air.

"Not that I'm complaining," she said, more than a little breathlessly, "but what was _that _for?"

"When you and Von Ratched go to face Thorvald, I am going with you," he said. His color was high now, meaning he actually had some.

Lorna's eyes narrowed. "Thranduil, if you go cave-man on me, I'll be very annoyed," she said, sitting back. "I've taken care'v myself for thirty-four years, and that was without my curse."

"I could not bear not knowing where you were, or what you faced," he said. "I do not care how strong you are, Lorna – you are mortal, and he is not."

"You're mortal too, you know," she pointed out. "At least, in the sense that there's shit out there that can kill you. And there has to be a reason it was only Von Ratched and I that went after Thorvald, in that timeline. The cities wouldn't just have been evacuated on a whim."

"I do not care," he said, and she supposed she shouldn't be surprised that he was so stubborn. This was Thranduil, after all. "I do not want you dying out there."

Lorna sighed. "Thranduil, did you get my memory of the Bus Incident?"

His brow furrowed. "When you drove one into the Liffey? No. I know that you _did_ it, but I do not have the memory."

She took his hand again. "Then let me show you."

_Eleven at night, and it was still hotter than hell._

_Dublin wasn't a city known for scorching heat waves, but the last week had broken all records. It_ _had topped out at thirty-six degrees that day, and even the wind off the Atlantic hadn't been enough to dispel it. Its inhabitants weren't built to handle such heat: they'd crowded into any shop that had air conditioning, or sat panting in whatever shade they could find. Almost every shop in the city had run out of bagged ice two days ago, and there wasn't an electric fan to be had._

_Lorna and the rest of the crew had spent the day splashing around in the River Liffey, deepening their already terrible sunburns. The warehouse they called home might as well have been a sauna, and no public bath would have dreamt of admitting the lot of them. The gang currently consisted of fourteen people, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty, dirty and disreputable but largely harmless. Calling them a 'gang' was a bit harsh, really; they were a collection of runaways, either orphans who'd fled foster care or kids like herself, who'd jumped ship from biological family not worth knowing. Every so often Social Services would make a halfhearted attempt to collect them, but it never stuck, and few wanted to deal with a pack of repeat juvenile offenders._

_They'd trouped back home at dark, sopping wet and hungry. 'Home' was, at the moment, an abandoned warehouse that they shared with an older, rather more serious gang, for whom they ran occasional errands in exchange for a little spare cash. It was a symbiotic relationship: their housemates kept the truly dangerous criminals away, and in return they did all sorts of minor smuggling._

_The warehouse was empty when they got there, and still sweltering. The ancient, wheezing icebox had both sandwiches and beer, though, and they clambered out onto the roof to eat and watch the sunset. A haze of bitter dust rendered it almost hellish, tinting everything beneath it in shades of sepia and shadow. To Lorna it looked like the dying of some great red eye - an effect helped along by the half-joint she'd just finished. It never did take much to addle her head; at fifteen, she stood only four foot ten, and weighed about ninety pounds on a good week. She looked so much younger than her actual age that she was the favorite drug-mule out of the entire crew. It also meant a single beer could get her completely and utterly plastered._

_She'd sat quiet a long while, cross-legged on rough shingles that continued to radiate heat long after the sun had dipped below the horizon. It was still so hot in the warehouse that sleep wasn't to be thought of for some hours yet, and her sunburn had started to itch like a mad bastard._

_"I'm bored," she said eventually, cracking her bare toes. The light pollution of the city kept the night sky from looking like anything special, and she wasn't a creature who could sit idle for long._

_"Christ help us," Orla muttered. She was a few years older than Lorna, tall and a bit mannish,_ _and her shock of sun-bleached hair only made her face look even redder. "You're so off your face I doubt you can even walk. I'll not fish you out've the river if you fall in again."_

_Lorna scowled, and managed to stand on her second try, and even succeeded in walking in a more or less straight line. "Then don't come with me." Inspiration struck as her balance fought to reorient itself. "I'm after a bus."_

_"A bus?" That was Shane, the gang's leader, looking at her thoughtfully. At twenty he was the oldest of them - taller than Orla, covered in home-done tattoos, with a mane of sandy hair that hadn't seen a pair of shears in all the time she'd known him._

_"A bus," she repeated, shoving the hair out of her eyes. It was mostly dry by now, and incredibly tangled. "They'll all be back in the yard by now, and I want one."_

_"You want to nick a city bus?" Orla asked. "_Why?"

_"Why not? Have you got anything else to doing tonight?"_

_"I haven't," she admitted. "But Lorna, that's mental. _You're_ mental."_

_"You say that like it's news," Shane muttered, and Lorna shot him a scowl. "I'll go, if only to stop you driving off a bridge."_

_"Not like her feet'd reach the pedals anyway," somebody else snickered - it had to be Grania, the little shit. "If Shane's going, I'm going."_

_"Me, too," Kevin piped in. He wasn't much taller than Lorna herself, and she didn't know how old he was - nobody knew much at all about Kevin, except maybe Shane. He was a quiet one, who didn't often speak unless he thought it absolutely necessary, and he occasionally had violent seizures - epilepsy, Shane said, and nothing any of them could do would induce him to see a doctor. They didn't happen often, but when they did he was sick and silent for days afterward. He wiped his hands on his damp, manky jeans, and stood._

_It went all around like that, until eventually Orla gave in as well. "If I wind up in gaol because've this, I'll shave your head," she threatened. It was her standard threat, one she'd never tried to make good on - mostly because the last person who had gone after Lorna's hair had nearly lost a finger._

_"Let's do this," Lorna grinned, and somehow made it down the fire escape without falling and breaking her neck. The pavement was gritty under her bare feet, even now faintly warm, and she_ _cast an automatic glance around at the shadowy forecourt. Their housemates weren't back yet; the entire place was empty, but she felt watched._

Lay off the weed_, she thought. It wasn't an unpleasant sensation, but it was…wrong. Alien. Nights like this, when everything around here was so deserted, she always half expected to see a pack of zombies lurching out of the darkness. She'd snuck into the cinema four times to watch _Day of the Dead_, despite - or perhaps because of - the nightmares it gave her. She'd actually made plans with Shane, just in case they really did wind up in the middle of a zombie apocalypse._

_No, this wasn't scary like that, but it was…strange. She couldn't write it off on her current state, though she'd like to. There - there in the shadows - what _was_ it? It was too big to be a cat, the wrong shape to be a person, and it remained even once she'd blinked, lurking against the wall of the warehouse opposite._

_It wasn't something she could bring up to the others. She'd had some fantastically bad reactions to drugs before, and if Shane thought she was going off her head, he wouldn't let her go _anywhere_. He could be worse than ever her mam had been, when Mam had still been alive._

_So she kept quiet, and none of the others seemed to notice anything out of the ordinary. They laughed and grumbled and occasionally belched as food and Guinness formed their lethal, gassy combination. Only once did she glance back as they made their way to the street - but the thing was still there._

_"Don't watch it."_

_To her surprise, that was Kevin, who had fallen back beside her. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, his posture slouched, but there was tension in his thin shoulders. His hazel eyes were bright in the glow of the streetlamp, bright and unnerving. "I mean it. Don't. Bad enough you've seen it once already."_

_She blinked at him, confused. "I haven't," she said, almost whispering. "What is it?"_

_"A bad sign," was all he would say. "It's a good thing we're out for a bit. Someone's for it tonight."_

_Well, that wasn't half baffling. Kevin made her nervous at times, and she normally didn't know the meaning of the word. He refused to say anything more, and eventually she gave up and migrated to one side of the herd._

_The street was dead empty this late, and their footfalls and laughter echoed loud in the quiet of the night. There wasn't even a hint of a breeze - damn rare for Dublin at any time, and that too made her nervous._

Fuck it, _she_ _thought, shoving it relentlessly out of her mind as they approached the bus yard._

_All of Dublin's buses came from this single spot, lined up in neat rows behind a chain-link fence topped with concertina wire. The lock was a heavy Yale bastard that held a short, heavy length of chain together around the door, but it did no good when bolt-cutters took care of the fence itself so very easily. Shane carried a miniature pair wherever he went, on an old, tarnished brass key-ring along with all sorts of other bits of metal not strictly legal._

_One by one they crawled through the hole he cut, stage-whispering and laughing. As Lorna had expected, once she'd got them going they all bought into the spirit of the thing; they usually did, sooner or later, even if it was often against what passed for their better judgment. She wasn't the only one who'd been drinking, after all, and she'd smoked a lot less grass than most of them. It hit her faster, but it was all but guaranteed it would hit them harder eventually._

_"Pick a bus, any bus," Shane said, and she scrutinized them closely, as if there were any actual difference._

_"That one," she said eventually, and held out her hand for Shane's larceny-ring. He'd taught all of them how to pick locks, and since this was her idea, she was the one who'd be leaving the fingerprints. It took more jimmying than it should have, simply because there was too much alcohol in her system for her hands to work properly, but eventually they all wound up in the big, slightly smelly vehicle._

_It took her nearly twenty minutes to figure out how to hot-wire the damn thing. That was yet another skill Shane had taught them, but a city bus was rather different than a car. She zapped herself several times, and set the headlamps flickering on and off for a good five minutes before she actually got the thing started._

_"How the hell d'you plan on getting this beast out've here?" Grania demanded, while Lorna fumbled with the seat. True to her irritating mate's prediction, she could scarcely see over the dash if she stretched enough to make her feet reach the pedals, but she wasn't about to let on._

_"Easy," she said, fumbling with the gearshift. In theory she could drive a manual, but once again,_ _a manual and a bus weren't the same thing. She wasn't about to give over on the whole idea, though - Grania would never let her live it down. And she especially didn't want to go back to the warehouse just yet. "Watch."_

_The bus shuddered like an epileptic drunk, and she nearly crashed into the one opposite while trying to turn. The wheel was so big she couldn't reach the far side of it, and it took a few mad course-corrections before she got her aim._

_"You're not-" Grania started, but before she could finish the sentence Lorna had gunned the accelerator and rammed right through the fence. It came apart with a tearing shriek of metal, odd bits scratching along the sides with the teeth-grating sound of nails down a chalkboard. Half the crew cried out in horror; the other half cheered._

_"Well, now we're bloody well screwed," Orla said, but she was laughing - yep, the weed had kicked in for her too, finally. "And where d'you plan on going with this thing?"_

_"Let's hit the south M7," Lorna grinned. "Bet this thing's never been on a real road trip before."_

_"And what'll we do when the cops catch us?" Grania asked sarcastically._

_"Outrun them," Lorna said, as though it were obvious. "Pity it's not America; we could get in a shoot-out." The Irish police didn't tend to carry guns, and the mental picture of them whacking at a bus with their truncheons made her laugh so hard she almost ran off the road._

_"Hit the radio, will you?" Orla said, slipping sideways on her seat and almost falling out of it._

_"Have buses got radios?" somebody else asked - Michael, from the sound of it, though he was so plastered he was barely intelligible._

_"This one has." Lorna fumbled with the dial, and caught some screeching English metal band. She cranked the volume as high as it would go as they pulled out onto the motorway._

_They had it to themselves at this time of night, and she gunned the accelerator as fast as she could, occasionally swerving as the big vehicle fought her control. Underneath her slightly drunken exultation was a faint sense of relief - whatever she'd seen near the warehouse was dropping ever farther behind them. She didn't even know what it was, but her every instinct told her it was a thing you'd do best to outrun. Even now her shoulder blades itched, and not just from her sunburn._

_She caught sight of Kevin in the rear-view mirror. He must be as relieved as she was, but he_ _didn't show it; he rarely showed anything that might be going on in his brain. Some of the others thought him weird in the head, but they thought that of her, too. Aside from Shane, he was the only one who went in much for reading: he could probably have qualified for his Leaving Certificate already if he'd stayed in school. Like her, he'd fled an abusive household, but she thought it was a damn shame he'd wound up having to stay with them. She was perfectly happy with her life, but Kevin could do so much more, if he'd be given the chance. Like Shane, Lorna was far more observant than she let on, and she hoped he'd get his chance. He wasn't cut out for this life, and it had only been bad luck he'd been born into the situation he'd left behind._

_The bus fought her again, and she turned her attention, such as it was, back to the road. She never felt more alive than she did while doing something completely idiotic, and this was one of the stupidest things she'd come up with in a long while. She had no idea where they'd ditch the bus, nor how they were to get home, but she didn't care and it seemed nobody else did, either. They were all masters of living in the present; if you weren't, with the kind of life they led, you'd go mad. Planning for the future wasn't a good idea when you slept rough in a warehouse every night. You had to take things as they came, deal with what was immediately in front of you._

_The highway flew by, the rumble of the big diesel engine mingling with the music. Christ, they'd about left Dublin now; she had to get off the motorway soon, or they'd wind up in bloody Kildare. And she didn't want to leave the bus where it would be found so easily._

_They were coming up on a bridge over the Liffey when she made the mistake of glancing in the rearview mirror again, and what she saw made her lose all grip on the wheel._

_It wasn't just her laughing gang back there now. Somehow they'd acquired another passenger - a dark passenger, a figure little more than a shadow that barely showed up in the darkness of the interior. All she could really see was its eyes: amber eyes, bright in the dimness, watching her with an intensity that twisted her gut. There was nothing malevolent in them, nothing evil, but they definitely weren't the eyes of anything human._

_And this time, she wasn't the only one that saw it. Grania let out an ungodly shriek, scrambling toward the front of the bus, and then every last bloody one of the others joined in, panic sobering them up more effectively than a bucket of cold water. It was no wonder she lost control of the wheel entirely then, and the bus lurched, swerved, and plowed straight into the guardrail at the side of the bridge._

_Metal screeched on metal as the rail tried valiantly to do its job, but it had been built for cars, not something as heavy and ungainly as a city bus. They crashed right through it, and for a gut-churning instant they were airborne. More than an instant; it felt like a small eternity before the thing nosedived into the river, and the panic became outright hysteria._

_They all made a mad scramble for the emergency door at the back, tripping over the seats and one another as the bus swiftly became a vertical obstacle-course. Shane made a fumbling grab for the emergency lever - which proved to be a massive tactical error. Water surged in, knocking half of them backward, but they were still near enough to the surface that they broke free of the suction - even Lorna, who could barely so much as dog-paddle. _

_She broke the surface spluttering, and did a frantic head-count. She couldn't tell if they were all there, but the thing that had been with them wasn't. The best swimmers struck out for the shore, but the Liffey's currents were strong here, and even they were having a hard time of it. Lorna would have gone under entirely if it weren't for Shane, who grabbed her long, tangled hair and dragged her after him. Between the chill of the water and the adrenaline in her system she barely registered the pain, and did what she could to keep up with him before he could tear all her hair out by the roots._

_She coughed and wheezed when she found the rocky bank beneath her hands, and tried to clear the water from her eyes enough to see just what the hell was going on. Nearly all of them had made it out by now, on one side of the river or the other, too shocked to comprehend what had just happened. Lorna definitely wasn't hot now; the water had chilled her to the bone, and she would probably have stayed rooted to the spot if Shane hadn't got hold of her hand and literally pulled her up the bank. It was steep here, hard going, but eventually they reached the motorway and its wrecked guardrail._

_The pavement there was warm, at least, heating up the soles of her feet, and she continued to cough up what felt like half the river. As soon as she'd got it all up she started wringing out her hair on auto-pilot, her brain still refusing to comprehend… anything, really. Those who had climbed the other bank ran toward them, looking more like terrified children than fearless, happy-go-lucky teenagers._

_"Did you see that?" Grania managed, right before puking up everything that had been in her stomach. The sight made Lorna lose what was left of her dinner, too, and she grimaced at the bile that burned her throat. "What in mother_ fuck _was it?"_

_"I don't know, and I don't want to." Even under her sunburn Orla had gone nearly as pale as her hair, her eyes wide and wild. "I about shat myself down there."_

_It wasn't funny, but they laughed anyway, mostly because it was laugh or go completely barking mad. In a way it was almost a relief to find they'd all seen it, though it also meant none of them could write it off as a drug-induced hallucination. Lorna wondered if it was selfish, to be glad the others shared her shock, and decided it wasn't: she couldn't imagine any of them would be sorry_ they weren't bearing it alone.

_"It missed." _

_The words were a whisper very near Lorna's ear, and she jumped. Somehow Kevin had all but materialized beside her. He was speaking only to her, with an urgency that frightened her even more than the crash. "I thought it was after somebody at the warehouse, but I was wrong."_

_"What in flippin' hell are you talking about?" she demanded, just as quietly._

_He looked at her very strangely, shoving water-darkened hair back from his forehead. "Death," he said, as thought it ought to have been obvious. "You watched your mam die in the hospital, Lorna. You had to've seen it then."_

_She hadn't. That… that_ thing _was hardly something a person could forget, even after doing as many drugs as she had. Yes, she'd watched Mam die - her and her brothers and sister had been crowded around their mother's bed, too stunned to comprehend that Da had finally hit her too hard. He'd been gone in gaol by then, the four of them wards of the state, and so far as she knew not a one of them had seen anything strange. She hadn't seen any of them in years: her sister had stayed in her foster-home even after Da got released, her eldest brother was in gaol himself, and nobody knew where Mick had got to. She could hardly ask any of them now._

_"I didn't," she insisted. "When would _you _have?"_

_"The accident that killed my father," he said. "I saw it come for him. It was after one've us tonight, and I haven't got a clue in hell why we're all still here. You watch them, Lorna," he said, low and fierce. "They'll forget. They'll all forget, by the time we get home. Not a one've them will know how any've it happened. They might not even remember crashing."_

_"Why?" she whispered. "How could you know that?"_

_"I've seen it happen before," he said, and now there was a desolation in his tone she'd never heard from anyone, ever._

_"Then how d'you know I'll remember?"_

_Again there was a strangeness in his eyes, a distance she didn't like at all, as though he were looking into some private hell. "You're marked, Lorna Donovan," he said. "Right here."_

_He touched her forehead, and she recoiled. She wanted to call him daft, say he'd had one too many before they left, but in the very bedrock of her soul she knew better. They'd all known for a long while now that Kevin was… different, but she'd never let herself wonder why, or how._

_"Get off it," she croaked, hardly aware of what left her mouth. "I'm not gonna die."_

_"No," he said, looking at her with an intense, almost bewildered curiosity, "you're not. Not yet, and I don't know why that is. You_ should _have, right here." He paused, more faraway than ever. "Maybe it didn't miss," he murmured. "Maybe it let you go."_

_She shuddered, and fought an urge to sick up again. She didn't want to believe it, any of it, but her beleaguered mind refused to deny his bizarre pronouncement._

_"A storm's coming for you, Lorna," he said. "Not for a long time yet, but it is. It's coming for all'v us, but it'll hit you first."_

_"You're off your nut," she said uneasily. "How in bloody fuck would you know any'v that?"_

_He was quiet a long, long time, ignoring all the others, who were too busy swearing to notice_

_either of them. "Dunno if I should tell you this," he said. "I guess I ought to, given what'll come. Those seizures'v mine… I see things. Things about all'v us, but you… you've eighteen years before everything goes to hell for you. Be careful."_

_She stared at him, no longer aware of the chill in her limbs. If he'd been talking about Shane she might have believed it, but she wasn't like either of them. There was nothing special about her, nothing to distinguish her from the hundreds of other homeless people that roamed the city. She was just a short kid who drank more than was healthy, who did stupidly lunatic things just because she could - no, he had to be wrong. She was nothing, and she was perfectly happy_ being _nothing, glad for the utter anonymity of her life. She did as she pleased, with no grown-up to yap at her about grades or clothes or the company she kept, nobody to demand she try to be anything special. That anonymity and ordinariness was something she thrived on, and she couldn't imagine anyone or anything caring enough to bother sending her life to hell. She was a quintessential background-dweller, for fuck's sake, the kind of kid nobody looked twice at, and she liked it that way._

_"If you can see so much, how do I dodge it?" she asked, wishing she didn't feel compelled to humor him, to rise to that insane statement._

_"You can't," he said, looking more desolate than ever. "None of us can. What's coming is something nobody on the planet can escape."_

_Christ, wasn't that an even worse idea. Where did he come up with this shite? Could epilepsy make someone hallucinate? She had no idea, but it was an easier thought to live with than actually believing him. "Come on," she said. "We've a fuck'v a long walk ahead'v us."_

_She turned and moved away before he could say anything, walking a little ahead of the group and trying not to think. Maybe she'd stay quiet a while after this, stick to the warehouse so no one had cause to notice her, but some fundamental instinct warned her that wouldn't work. _It_believed Kevin, even if what rational mind she had refused to._

He's barking_, she told herself. _He has to be.

_But in one thing, at least, he was very right. Even with the group a ways behind her, she could feel the easing of their tension, the wane of what was extremely understandable terror. When she dared look behind her she could see they were still shaken up, but some of them were laughing, telling one another they'd have a grand story for their housemates. _

_"Least we don't have to worry about anyone finding fingerprints," Orla said, grinning and shaking out her wet hair. The warm night air was already drying it, and errant wisps floated around her head like a pale corona. "Might take them ages to even dredge the thing up."_

_"Dunno what in fuck Lorna could've hit," Michael slurred, weaving along in the weirdly graceful almost-dance of the extremely drunk._

_"Probably nothing," Grania muttered. "Knew she wouldn't be able to see what she was doing. Lucky none'v us copped it back there."_

_A sharp glance at Kevin made Lorna shiver. He wasn't surprised, not at all, and his hazel eyes looked incredibly old in his young face. It disturbed her beyond words, and she looked away, concentrating only on putting one bare foot in front of the other. Her mind deliberately tuned itself out as she trudged, shutting it down the only defense she had. When they got back, she was going to drink herself stupid for the rest of the week._

_Pale dawn was tinting the eastern horizon by the time they got home, the air already heating up_ _again. The day would be another scorcher, but she had no desire to go swimming again. Hell, she'd gladly avoid rivers for the rest of her life, after that._

_When she staggered through the door she found their housemates asleep - or passed out - all over their half of the warehouse. She grabbed a beer from the icebox and downed it in three large gulps, letting the alcoholic buzz dampen what few coherent thoughts remained to her. She got halfway through another before she passed out herself, and if she dreamt, she didn't remember it._

_She woke up in the morning with a raging hangover, and got up long enough to down two aspirin and about a gallon of water. Kevin was nowhere to be seen, thank God, nor were any of the others but Shane. They must all have gone down to the river again, though how they could have done so after the previous night, she didn't know. She was hot and sweaty and her head felt absolutely foul, but she'd stick to stealing her shower from the hydrant outside._

_When she woke again the sun had made its way west - she'd lost most of the day, but she didn't mind. She sat up on her cot and rubbed her sleep-grained eyes, and found Shane was still there. He'd probably stuck around to make sure she didn't vomit and choke to death in her sleep, but now he was out himself, sprawled in an ancient armchair with a half-finished beer in his hand._

_Not bothering to wake him, she staggered out into the forecourt and twisted the loosened bolt off the hydrant. The spray did more for her aching head than any amount of aspirin could, and she let it sluice away the sweat and grit from her skin. Some more water and a little hair of the dog and she'd be fine - physically, at least. It was going to take a little more effort to banish Kevin's cryptic prophecy, but they still had plenty of grass._

_When she went back inside, she found Shane more or less awake. He'd pried open the rest of the windows, in a futile attempt at circulating the stale, musty air. He raised his Guinness bottle in a sardonic toast._

_"Last time I ever let you drive anything," he said. "What in bloody Christ did you swerve for?"_

_Lorna stared at him. She'd hoped Kevin was wrong, that she'd misheard him, but no - Shane really didn't remember. "Cat," she said inanely - it was a pathetic excuse and she knew it; there was no way a cat would make it that far out onto the motorway._

_He snorted. "If I'd known you'd got into the mushrooms before we left, I never would've let you anywhere near a bus. You're too much'v a lightweight to go on as you do."_

_There was an almost brotherly concern in his tone, and she fought a sigh. He probably wouldn't let her out of his sight more than five minutes for the next two weeks. She knew Shane thought her half cracked, but now she was inclined to agree with him. "Sure I don't think I'll be trying that ever again," she said, flopping onto her cot. _

_"We made the news," he said, a little proudly. They had an ancient television in one corner of the warehouse, its rabbit-ears turned into a couple sails of tinfoil. It only got one channel, but just now it was one too many. She really didn't need to know that. "They're saying it was the IRA."_

_Now she was the one who snorted. "They think the IRA would bother nicking and crashing a bloody bus in Dublin? Must be a damn slow news day."_

_"I think they're sick'v talking about the heat," he said, and she let the sheer_ normalcy_ of his voice wash over her. "There's only so many ways to say the weathermen haven't got a clue."_

_"Ought to do an update on that woman who knits jumpers out'v cat hair," she snorted, for want of anything better to say. Yeah, things could even out now, she was sure. They_ had_ to. The lot of them would go back to being cheerful reprobates, and they need never mention last night again. Maybe, with enough effort, she could forget everything Kevin had said to her, could banish it with all the other things she'd determinedly excised from her memory. God knew she had enough practice at it._

_She picked at her hair with a brush while Shane grumbled, patiently teasing out the knots and snarls as best she could. The light filtering through the high windows turned ever redder, and when deep purpling shadows started gathering in the corners, the rest came home._

_They were dripping wet again, happy and hungry and evidently as selectively amnesiac as Shane. All of them but Kevin, and when he looked at her, she refused to look back. Part of her felt rotten for leaving him alone, for being unable to talk to him about the mad things he'd told her last night, but she just couldn't. Not now, and perhaps not ever. All she could do was live, and hope like hell he was wrong._

Her awareness came back to the present, gently guiding Thranduil with her. "I'll die when I'm meant to," she said, "and I don't think there's anything that you nor anyone else can do about it. I've dodged it twice already, once with your help—" she wasn't going to mention that it was also his _fault_ " —so if I'm meant to dodge it again, I will. For what it's worth, I don't think my death lies with Thorvald."

"I do not care," he repeated. "I am going with you."

She rolled her eyes. "If you get _yourself _killed, I'll never forgive you," she said. "And I won't be the only one. I'll find a way to turn you into a zombie like Marty, just so I can bitch at you for the rest'v _my _life. You've already got the eyes for it."

"Oh, shut up," he said, and kissed her again.

"You can't keep doing that," she said, when he let her up for air. "Sooner or later, someone else'll come in, which would be super fucking awkward for everyone involved."

He gave a wordless sigh of frustration, which she took to mean he knew she was right. "Six weeks," he grumbled, and Lorna laughed.

"Yeah, well, think'v it this way: it's six weeks for someone to work out how to invent condoms. I am _not _going through another pregnancy like that."

* * *

So, Kevin is the one that Arandur reminds Lorna so much of. He was also like Geezer. This memory of Lorna's will serve a wider purpose, and rather soon.

The title means "Memory" in Irish. As always, reviews are my fuel.


	46. Spochadh

In which Sharley and Galadriel head off for Angmar, the Wood-Elf party reaches Dale, and Thranduil proceeds to troll the shit out of everyone (with Lorna's help, at times). Also, Lorna is a _Downton Abbey _fan.

* * *

Galadriel had not thought to be walking to Angmar, but Elves were strong, and they only needed to carry food for one person, as Sharley did not need to eat or drink – or sleep, for that matter. Elves slept very little compared to other races, but they did still need to rest sometimes. Thought of never sleeping was vaguely disturbing.

"If there truly _are _Memories in Angmar," Galadriel said, "what will you do with them? Can your sword destroy them?"

"Destroy them?" Sharley repeated, looking at her. "No. Nothing can destroy them – it's why they're such a problem in the Other. I _can _trap them, though, provided they're not already bound to the place that they died. If I can, I need to throw them out."

"Out?" Galadriel prompted.

Sharley hesitated."Well, since it's just you here," she said. "I might be able to throw them outside Time. I couldn't do that at home, because Time's too fragile there already, but Middle-Earth's is pretty strong, especially out here. If I can boot 'em out there, they won't be anybody's problem."

"And if you cannot?"

She sighed. "If I can't, it's only a matter of time before they get loose. Might not be for another ten thousand years, but they'll do it. And when that happens, Middle-Earth might well be fucked."

"Can they be contained with magic?" Not that that would be a permanent solution, but it would help.

"Not by any magic in my world," Sharley said. "Maybe by yours. I'm hoping that'll work – this isn't the Memories' native land. If there's any luck in the universe, it'll count against them."

"What caused them?" Galadriel asked, taking out her water-skin. "There has been much foul magic in this world, but though it has produced wights and wraiths, it has never made creatures such as you describe."

Sharley looked away. The rising moon cast the trees in silver, and her mismatched eyes traced the canopy. "There was a war, in my world," she said. "Not very long ago at all by your standards, but some three hundred years before I was born.

"My father's first wife was…not stable. She'd been born a human, but he made her a god when he married her, and over time it drove her insane. I don't actually know how the war started, but I do know that my father didn't help at all. I still don't understand why he got married in the first place – he doesn't understand the living, mortal or immortal."

She paused. "The war didn't go on for long, but it didn't need to. Between her, my father, my foster-mother, and Marty's zombie-mother, the Other was almost destroyed within six months. She detonated some kinda magic-bomb over a city called Echo, which killed everybody that hadn't evacuated, and it created the Memories. I doubt she did it on purpose, because she might have been crazy, but she wasn't stupid."

Strangely, Sharley had folded in on herself somewhat as she spoke – however powerful a being she was, it was clear that she was not above trauma. "I died there," she said quietly. "Marty and I did. It was damn near the last thing my human eyes ever saw. Tanya brought her back as a zombie, and my father brought me back as _this_."

Galadriel reached out, instinct guiding her to lay a comforting hand on Sharley's shoulder, but she hesitated. She actually _hesitated_.

Sharley saw the aborted movement, and smiled humorlessly. "Very few people can touch me without fear," she said. "Animals are scared of me, and machinery – not that you have any cause to know what that is – tends to break down if I'm near it long enough. I'm an unnatural thing, but at least that's a good thing sometimes. Even creatures are just as afraid of me as good ones."

"Like the spiders," Galadriel said.

Sharley's smile turned somewhat more genuine. "Like the spiders. Watching those things run away was pretty awesome. Gross, but awesome. If we run into any other nasties before we reach Angmar, you'll be the first person in Middle-Earth to see how this sword works, too. So far, you're the only one I'd really trust to know it."

"Why?"

"Because you're the only one who won't run away once you see what it does."

* * *

Thranduil actually slept that night, but his sleep was troubled, and he woke in no good mood.

When he blinked, he found Lorna was already awake, and watching him with a smile that bordered on a smirk.

"You've been frowning in your sleep," she said, smoothing the crease between his eyebrows with her thumb. "We're hitting Dale today. You can't show up looking like Grumpy Cat."

"Grumpy Cat?" he questioned, arching an eyebrow.

A picture formed in his mind, of the most bizarrely unattractive cat he had ever seen. It did indeed appear to be frowning, but it was somehow adorable, in an ugly sort of way.

"How flattering," he muttered, but her rather delighted little smirk soothed his temper. "Kiss me, and maybe I will not murder someone as soon as I leave this tent."

Now she was the one who arched an eyebrow. "That's blackmail."

"I think not," he said. "Extortion, at worst."

Lorna rolled her eyes. "You're a berk," she said, but kissed him anyway. "Now get up. I'm hungry."

"Why did you not rise on your own?"

"I like watching you sleep," she said. "It's creepy."

"_You _are creepy," he said, sitting up and taking her with him. "I thought you said Elves looked dead when we slept."

"You do. But then you wake up, and you're not dead." She paused, clearly bracing herself before throwing back the blankets. "_Christ_, it's cold. So much for spring."

"We _are _rather far north. Stay there." He rose, gathering her day clothes, passing them to her so that she could dress under the warmth of the blankets.

Dale. He did not greet the idea with anticipation, and not only because he had frightened the life out of Bard the last time he was here. Nobody liked a guest who brought ill tidings, and his were ill indeed. No doubt Dain would explode, as Dain was wont to do, and there would be much shouting while Balin tried to talk him down. Thranduil did not envy the old Dwarf his position. He knew that his own counselors often despaired of him, but at least he never threw cutlery at their heads.

"I hope there's not protocol I've got to observe, now that we're married," Lorna said, jamming her right foot into her boot. "I'll never remember it if there is."

"Given that they already know you, I doubt you will offend anyone," he said, shrugging into his robe. "With Dain in particular, it will be best if you are yourself. According to Arandur, he was impressed by your capacity for drink."

She laughed. "I'd hope so, given how much I drank. I wonder if they'll have any'v that beer on tap – I'm gagging for some booze, and since I'm not nursing, I'm damn well going to have a mug or five. A few Irish drinking songs might make the Dwarves happy."

Thranduil had little doubt that they would.

* * *

The blasted Elves would be arriving soon, but Dain couldn't deny that he was curious. Ordinarily he wouldn't have gone to Dale to visit any new arrivals, but he did today – partly because he thought Bard could use the moral support. Dain hadn't actually seen Thranduil on his last impromptu visit, but apparently he'd been terrifying. Poor Bard wouldn't want to deal with this alone.

It was a lovely day for it, at least, the sky bright blue and cloudless, the sun strong and warm. Most of Dale had turned out, dressed in their finery, equal parts excited an uneasy; many of them had witnessed Thranduil's last visit as well. Perhaps some of them were expecting something out of the ordinary.

They got it, after a fashion. When the group approached, he saw that all three of the Edain were indeed with them, with a fourth he had not seen, as were three of the five Elves Bard had sheltered. Lorna, for some bloody reason, was riding that great moose with Thranduil, perfectly safe and sound, looking at Dale with avid curiosity. She'd only ever seen it covered in snow, but now Bard had hung out all of the city's bright banners, with colorful pennants fluttering in the breeze.

Dain looked carefully at Thranduil. If the woodland sprite really had gone mad, there was no sign of it now; he looked the same as ever, though there was less hauteur than normal in his expression. He said something Dain couldn't have hoped to hear at such a distance, and Lorna elbowed him in the ribs.

Well. _That _was interesting. There was a story there, and Dain wanted to know it.

Bard, looking distinctly nervous, pulled at his stiff collar as the caravan reached the open gate. He was pale in spite of the sun, and Dain did feel genuinely sorry for him.

"King Thranduil," he said, standing unnaturally straight. "Welcome to Dale."

"I promise this will not be like my last visit," Thranduil said dryly, swinging himself down from the moose.

Lorna said something in Sindarin, and Dain looked to Balin for translation.

"She says 'it had better not be'," Balin said, his eyebrows rising.

She glanced at Bard and Dain, and grinned. "Get me down off this thing, before I die'v airsickness," she said in Westron. Since when could she speak Westron? A few months was not nearly enough time to gain fluency in the language.

"He is not _that _tall," Thranduil sighed, reaching up to help her down. She winced, and the look he gave her was actually _concerned_.

She waved a hand, and said something Dain assumed was reassurance in Sindarin. "I hope you've got more'v that ale, King Dain," she said. "I've been craving it since I left."

His laughter boomed through the courtyard. "That I have, lass. Better than all the Elvish wine in the world."

Lorna glanced at Thranduil. "I don't know," she said. "The wine does have its merits."

He gave her an extremely dry look. "Yes," he said blandly, "it does. We bear gifts, my lords, and news best delivered over alcohol."

Lorna said something that Balin translated as, "That's one way of putting it."

_That _did not fill Dain with confidence. Trust Thranduil to bring bad news with him.

The entire cavalcade passed through the gates, while the people of Dale watched Thranduil warily, in case he should suddenly manifest sights of overt insanity. Dain would swear some of them were disappointed when he did not, though they still gave him a wide berth. There were very few people who _weren't _intimidated by the Elvenking, and while Dain was among them, he could understand why a person would be.

Notably, he tried to keep Lorna near his side, and failed utterly; she was too busy taking in the sight of Dale in spring to pay him much mind. She made quite a contrast to Thranduil in his fancy Elven robes; she wore now the same style of long tunic and trousers that she'd worn to the feast in Erebor, though of much richer fabric, a deep green embroidered with silver.

The feast in Erebor, when she'd had to keep away from the crowd for fear of it doing something to her mind. She had no trouble at all now, or so it seemed, even though they were surrounded by people.

Thranduil said something that made her scowl, and Balin snorted.

"He says if she wanders off, she'll get stepped on. Whatever happened to drive her to Dale before, I'd think it safe to say it's sorted itself."

"But _why_?" Dain wondered aloud. "And _how_?"

"Dare say we'll find out in good time. Bard's got as much of a feast as can be laid on after winter. We've brought plenty of our own, to make up for any lack." Balin was always the one who dealt with such niceties, since Dain couldn't be bothered.

Not that he expected many to be concentrating on the food. The strangeness of their guests might be entertainment enough.

* * *

The problem with being married to the King of the damn Wood-Elves was that Lorna couldn't just run off and explore like she wanted to. Dale looked like it could be a hell of a lot of fun, but nope, she apparently had shit to do.

At least part of that involved taking a bath. It wasn't quite as nice in the halls, but nothing else could be, and the water still felt good after three days of riding an elk. She scrubbed her hair and sat by the brazier to dry it, bundled up in a warm robe. The tents could hold heat surprisingly well, so long as the brazier was lit, and it was much warmer now than it was at night.

"Are you decent?" Thranduil called through the door.

"Am I ever? Yeah, come on in. How long 'til we eat?"

"Your diplomatic skills are staggering," he said dryly. "Soon. I know there is no point in asking you to wear the dress, though you will need to, if Dain hosts us in Erebor, but leave your hair down today."

"What, so it can eat people?" she asked, running her brush through it.

"It is symbolic," he said, taking a flat box out of some pocket in his roe. She'd swear that thing was a TARDIS, given all the shit he could fit in the pockets. "I have never asked to crown you as queen, because I was and remain certain you would impale me with something if I tried, but wear this. It will certainly prove a distraction." Inside the box was a simple circlet like the ones he often wore, with a green stone, darker than an emerald, that would rest on her forehead. It was beautiful, and she was pretty sure she'd look like an idiot in it.

"How d'you know it'll fit?" she asked, struggling to her feet to look at it.

"I measured your head while you were asleep, some days before we left the halls."

Lorna snorted. "That? Kind'v creepy."

He arched an eyebrow. "This from the woman who likes to watch me sleep because she says it makes me look dead."

Well, okay, he had a point there. "I'll look totally stupid," she said. "These things work great on you people, but I'm a very small human. The effect won't be the same." She took it from him anyway, though, and asked, "Are you even going to bother telling anyone we got married, or are you sticking to your plan of making everyone work it out for themselves?"

"A simple announcement would be so dull," he said. "I want to see how long it will take someone to ask."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you do."

* * *

Arandur was beyond happy to be back in Dale, and in springtime, no less. He'd seen all there was to see of the city when it was buried in snow, but now all the gardens were beginning to bloom, and the market, which was famous even in far lands, was open and bustling.

As a member of King Thranduil's retinue, it was only natural that the stall-keepers would want to give him things, but he had come to know a number of these people during his stay here, and their gifts were more personal – fine quills, ink in a dozen different shades, and, most touchingly, a huge book, bound in green leather, containing all the stories and legends known to the people of Dale. Apparently, many of those he knew had begun compiling it not long after he left.

"We thought you'd come back someday," Sigrid said. "We hoped so, anyway. There's more room, too, so you can add stories from wherever you travel."

"Are you still going to travel?" Tilda asked. The wind had blown her hair from its braids, and her eyes danced in the sunlight – would Lorna's children be like her, or like the children of the Elves?

"I do not know," he said. "Not for some years, but eventually." Lorna had asked him to be godfather to the twins, whatever that meant. He assumed it would keep him close to home. "I have never received a finer gift." He meant it, too. "I am only sorry I have nothing to offer in return."

"You kept us from going mad over the winter," the baker said. Astrid, that was her name – maker of a type of honey roll even the cooks of the Woodland Realm couldn't match. "It's us who can't repay you."

"Do you know why your King is here?" Sigrid asked. "His messenger did not tell Father."

"I do not," he said, and it was mostly true: he'd heard little about this man, Von Ratched, or Thorvald. Certainly far less than the King had to know.

None of the little group looked pleased by that answer – or like they believed it. "Whatever tidings _he _brings, I at least have some good news – he married, several weeks after I returned to the Woodland Realm, and has been rather happier since." A happy Elvenking was good for everyone, including his allies and trading partners.

That earned him many exclamations of surprise, but Sigrid's shrewd eyes narrowed. "Arandur, I trust you not to take offense when I say that your King is terrifying, and I cannot imagine anyone wanting to marry him."

"I am certain Lorna will tell you, if you ask," he said. "Amid a great many curses, of course. Their courtship was not precisely conventional."

Tilda and Sigrid looked at one another, and Arandur knew it would be all over Dale by evening. The King seemed content to force people to come to their own conclusions, but for form's sake, Bard and Dain needed to know. Whether or not they _believed _it was their own affair.

* * *

In one way, Bard was very relieved Thranduil did not look as though he meant to murder anyone, now or in future. Indeed, he seemed in good humor, insofar as he was readable at all, and yet he and his retinue had traveled here with very little warning.

Faelon and Menelwen could tell him little, for it was little that they knew. Great evil was either coming, or had already arrived, or both. Gandalf had been sent beyond the mountains on an errand of some urgency. When asked why Thranduil had not come earlier, however, they both grew very evasive.

"That is for the King to say, not us," Menelwen said. "Suffice it to say he has his reasons."

_They had best be good ones,_ Bard thought. They left him to deal with the aggravation of his ceremonial robes, which he even yet couldn't get right without Sigrid's help.

* * *

Spring though it was, dark still fell early; by the time the feast was set to commence, the sun had set, and the sky was a mass of stars. A hundred and one delicious food smells wafted through the walls of Lorna's tent, making her stomach growl like a rabid dog. She'd had a sandwich for a late lunch, but it hadn't been nearly enough.

She'd swapped her riding-clothes for another tunic-and-trouser set of the same cut, but of black velvet and silver. She had a hazy idea that nobs were meant to change clothes before dinner, got from watching _Downton Abbey _from her sister. Her hair she left down, against her better judgment, and it kept getting stuck in the circlet each time she tried to get it centered. The fact that she didn't have a mirror was no help.

"You are utterly hopeless." Thranduil's hand snatched the circlet out of hers, and she turned to kick him on sheer reflex.

"Someday you'll startle me when I've a knife in my hand, and then we'll both be standing there looking at your innards all over the floor, feeling like right twats."

"An evocative picture, if unlikely. Hold still." He grabbed her brush, running it through her hair several times to smooth it. The metal of the circlet was cool when he set it on her head, but not heavy or uncomfortable.

"Do I look as stupid as I'm sure I do?" she asked, when he stepped back to look at her.

"No, Dilthen Ettelëa, you do not. Now come – let us make people deeply uncomfortable," he said, offering her his arm with every ounce of haughty, distant Elvish dignity he possessed.

Lorna tried not to laugh, but only succeeded for about fifteen seconds. "You are an overgrown child," she said, taking his arm, "and we are possibly the oddest-looking pair ever. If it's uncomfortable you want, I'm sure you'll get it in spades." Hell, _she _was feeling a little uncomfortable, and normally the only thing that could make her feel awkward was Thranduil himself.

He must have noticed it, for he said, "I will be with you, Lorna."

"That's what I'm afraid of," she said, looking up at him with narrowed eyes. "Behave yourself, if you at all can. The news we've brought is going to freak them out enough on its own."

"I will try," he said, and did not sound at all as though he meant it. "But come – we must go through."

"Has Carson rung the gong?" she asked, as he led her to the tent flap.

He paused, and arched an eyebrow. "I am afraid we do not have a Carson," he said. "Perhaps we could import one, so that Galion might have a friend."

She burst out laughing, and help laughing even once they were outside. The mental image was so priceless that she wished she had any talent at all as artist. She'd love to capture it for posterity.

"You cannot stop picturing it, can you?" he asked.

"Nope," she managed. "I may never get it out'v my head."

He smirked a very little as he led her to a large pavilion, and she'd grant him this: his presence beside her meant nobody bumped into – or stepped on – her. Having people give her a wide berth was something of a novelty, even if it _was _because of someone else.

True to his word, they drew quite a bit of staring as they approached the pavilion, which really was massive – a bit like something of a circus tent, though the fabric was of a much nicer pattern and color. Unlike the Elves, who seemed to favor earth tones, the people of Dale looked like they preferred colors that were bright without being garish; the pavilion was like a giant tapestry depicting the lake and the land beyond, complete with a fabulous sunset.

It was already crowded, both within and without. Metal braziers that looked like Dwarf-work were placed at intervals between the tables, driving away the night's chill, and dozens of lanterns lit everything up as well as if they'd been electric lights. The din of so many different conversations rippled about them like water, though it muted some wherever they went, and okay, wow, Lorna actually _did _feel a little self-conscious. It was something of a first, and she didn't enjoy it.

"Just picture them in their under-clothes," Thranduil said in English.

She choked on a laugh. "_That _is not a mental image I need," she said, also in English. "I'll stick to imagining Galion and Carson as BFF's."

"In their under-clothes," he deadpanned.

She utterly lost it before she could help herself – if he hadn't had hold of her arm, she would have elbowed him in the ribs. "You," she said, trying to glower and totally failing, "are not helping."

"Good," he said, smirking down at her. "That was not my intent."

"You know, just because we're married doesn't mean your eyebrows are safe," she warned. "Now would be a terrible idea to lose them."

The smirk grew more pronounced. "I would very much love to see you try."

"No," she said, "you really wouldn't."

* * *

Well, _that _was possibly the most disturbing thing Dain had ever seen. Word of Thranduil's supposed marriage had reached him through several incredulous parties, and naturally, he'd thought it a joke, until Arandur confirmed it.

Just as naturally, he'd wondered how, and _why_, which in turn led to uneasy speculation that some manner of coercion had been involved, but that didn't seem to be the case. He couldn't understand what Thranduil said to her, but Lorna was laughing so hard that Dain thought she might choke, and Thranduil was actually _smiling _– well, smirking, but close enough. He probably wasn't capable of an actual smile.

Dain glanced at Bard, who looked every bit as unnerved as he felt. Bard might be on better terms personally with the Elvenking, but he was also quite intimidated by him. Seeing him act like anything besides a statue that lived was downright unnatural.

The pair of them were trailed by the other Edain, as well as Prince Legolas, who, interestingly, also looked somewhat unsettled. Now Dain _really _wanted the story behind it all, far more than he wanted whatever ill news Thranduil had brought.

The pair came to sit at Bard's left – and oddly, Legolas sat rather further down the table – and as soon as they had, Lorna kicked Thranduil under the table. Rather than scowl, he same something that made her sigh, and rub her temples.

Dain turned to Balin, who was seated on his left. "Have you heard anything of how _that _came about?" he asked in Khuzdûl.

Balin shook his head. "I'd thought it a joke, no matter what Arandur said. We'll get the tale out of Lorna, if she's drunk enough."

"That'll take some doing." Fortunately, they'd brought a very large quantity of ale.

His eyes wandered to Geezer, who was seated at one of the lower tables with Katje and the other Man. He looked happier than he'd ever been in Dale or Erebor, though he was eying the barrels of ale with undisguised greed. Katje too seemed positively delighted, though in her gown she looked a little too much like an Elf. She was pointing out things and people to their third companion, and gave Dain and Balin a wave. Arandur too gave them a short bow before he sat, talking animatedly with the group in their own language. Whatever had been wrong with the Woodland Realm really had apparently righted itself. Maybe the wizard had hit them all with some powerful enchantment. At this point, Dain couldn't think of any other explanation.

* * *

Thranduil knew Bard hated giving speeches, and was unsurprised when he kept it short and to the point: welcome to the lords and allies of Dale, etc, etc. Thranduil paid little attention – he was far more focused on observing the crowd, gauging its mood, wondering how the people of Dale and Erebor would accept this news, whenever and however, their lords chose to share it with them.

They had already suffered greatly five years ago; while they would in no way welcome his warning, both Edain and Dwarves were a hardy people. Dale was not impenetrable – he needed to warn Bard of the culvert he had used – but Erebor was. Should war reach this far, the mountain could shelter Bard and his people. Those of Esgaroth could come to the Woodland Realm, and hope that their town would not get razed for a second time in less than a decade.

He could feel Dain's furtive, disturbed glances from Bard's other side, and had to fight a smile. Word of his unlikely marriage had somehow spread already, and the Dwarf king was visibly unsettled. There was so much more to be done with that, before the night was over.

Lorna had yet to notice, but that was because she was loading her plate with a little of everything there was to eat. It had been so long since she could eat very much without risking nausea that it looked as though she meant to gorge herself now.

"If you eat yourself sick, I will have no sympathy," he said.

"_You _are not the one who spent four months living off chicken broth and bread," she said, dishing up a slice of pie. "I dare you to go through that diet and not eat everything in sight as soon as you can. Besides, Galasríniel told me I actually _lost _weight while I was pregnant, which is both fucked-up and wrong."

She had, and it hadn't escaped his notice – her arms, normally well-muscled, were much thinner, the bones of her face sharper. "It will do you no good if it only comes back up later."

"You're no fun," she groused, but added no more to her plate.

"You will thank me later." Later, when he would pull Bard and Dain aside to deliver his news in private. It was best delivered accompanied by alcohol, with the finer points gone over tomorrow, after the impact had time to settle in.

Bard turned to him, obviously striving to master discomfort. "I did not hear before now that you had married, King Thranduil."

"It was rather recent," Thranduil said, and Lorna snorted into her ale. He turned to her. "Should I tell the story, Dilthen Ettelëa, or do you wish to?"

"I don't think I could tell it without laughing, so you do it," she said.

"There was a great deal of wine involved," he said, turning back to Bard. "So much so that I neglected to tell Lorna that going to bed with an Elf means you are wed to one. Naturally, she was somewhat displeased by this the next morning."

"That's putting it mildly," she snarked.

"We agreed to act as though little had changed, but things _did _change. After quite a bit of shouting, projectile pickle jars, and a truly disturbing amount of vomit." He would not actually mention the twins here; they could wait until they had more privacy.

"I also destroyed half his wardrobe," she supplied, somehow reining in her laughter even in the face of Bard's and Dain's expressions. "But then he gave me a garden, and took care'v me when I was…ill… and I decided being married wasn't so bad after all. Even if I do still sometimes want to rip off his eyebrows."

"One day you will tell me why they offend you so," he intoned solemnly.

"As soon as I've figured it out, I'll let you know."

The looks Bard and Dain were giving them were almost enough to make him laugh outright – particularly Dain, who appeared slightly ill. No doubt he was trying to process Elven wedding rites, and was, as Lorna's world might call it, squicked.

"And you are happy with this?" Bard asked, as diplomatically as he probably could.

"Surprisingly, yes," Lorna said. "He can actually be amazingly thoughtful, when he feels like it."

"And her obnoxiousness grows on one," Thranduil said, looking down at her. "Rather like a fungus."

She leaned around him to get a better view of Bard and Dain. "Flattery isn't exactly his strong point. I doubt that will ever change."

"Neither will your height."

She looked at him, eyes narrowed. "I'll bite you," she warned.

He arched an eyebrow. "Now, now," he said. "Not in public."

Lorna burst out laughing, almost upending her ale. Dain made an unmistakable gagging sound, and Bard just choked. When Thranduil looked at him, the poor man's face had gone red as a firebrick.

"Ignore him," Lorna said, between giggles. "He has no tact. Or manners. It's best to just think of him as a complete savage."

"This from the woman who once broke someone's nose with half a brick."

Poor Bard took a very large gulp of his wine.

* * *

I give you Lorna and Thranduil, Trolls Extraordinaire. I almost feel sorrier for Legolas than for Bard or Dain, though, because seriously, even Elves can find their parents embarrassing.

Title means "Teasing" in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me life.


	47. Bronntanais

In which Bard and Dain get bad news (and an adorable Marty), Sharley and Galadriel continue their way to Angmar, and Bard gets traumatized.

* * *

Thranduil waited until everyone but him was well and truly drunk – and even he was tipsy – before informing Bard they needed a quiet place to speak in private.

Neither he nor Dain looked happy to hear it, but nor did they look surprised. Even Dain staggered a little when Bard led them to his house, away from the warmth and light and into chilly darkness. Thranduil practically had to carry Lorna, she leaned so heavily upon his arm. Legolas, also unsteady on his feet, followed in silence.

The fire still burned low in the hearth of Bard's kitchen, and he added a few sticks while the others found seats. Thranduil took the couch, so that Lorna might lean on his shoulder and attempt to stay upright. Legolas, his face red from wine, sat in a chair on his other side – while his son already knew most of this, he didn't know all of it.

"War is coming," Thranduil said bluntly. "While it is unlikely to reach our lands soon, neither can we trust that it will not find us. Lorna and the other four Edain are not the only people to have come from her world, nor do I believe they will be the last."

"There's a man named Von Ratched," Lorna put in. "He's in Gondor for now, but I don't trust him to stay there. He's cursed like the rest'v us – same curse as mine, in fact – but so much stronger. Thranduil and I will deal with him, but there's a worse one on the way, and _he'll_ be a direct threat to everyone. Not to mention whatever the hell Sharley'll find in Angmar."

"Angmar?" Dain growled, sitting up straighter. "There's been nothing in Angmar for centuries."

"There may well be now," Thranduil said grimly. "And that is not all. We have spoken with a dead woman from another world, who claims that she and two million of her kindred will come to Arda when we have need of them. You may well see some very strange things, in the months and years to come. Should you see Aelis or any of her kind, do not fear them.

Bard looked from Thranduil to Legolas to Lorna, clearly hoping this was all some very bad jest. Thranduil could not blame him, either, because it certainly sounded like one.

"Were Sharley here, she might be more persuasive," Legolas said. "She is not of this world or Lorna's. She does not breathe, she cannot die, the spiders flee from her, and she carries a sword the like of which even Lady Galadriel has never seen."

"Her daughter is undead, yet not a wight," Thranduil added. "She came with us, though none can have seen her, or we would have heard the screaming."

"I was playing Tiddlywinks."

Sweet Eru, could that child move as quietly as an Elf. She appeared out of the shadows as if from nowhere, crawling up onto Lorna's lap as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Dain swore in Khuzdûl, and Bard actually leapt backward, knocking over his chair, paling five shades in as many seconds.

Marty sighed. "I won't eat you," she said. "I get that a lot. Thrandu-weel's right, though. Without Aelis and us, you could be hosed."

"_Marty_," Lorna chided, quite hypocritically.

Marty looked up at her. "You've never met my grandma Jary. She could probably out-swear you."

"Now _that_ I would pay to see," Lorna said.

Thranduil translated all of Marty's speech for Bard and Dain, neither of whom looked at all reassured by it. He supposed he could understand why. He sighed – he had known he would have his work cut out for him, but that made it no less irritating.

* * *

Sharley was rather impressed by Lady Galadriel, which was something of a feat, considering that there was very little that impressed her anymore.

Sooner or later, the living had always lagged, but Galadriel kept pace with her, seemingly tirelessly. Though not at all dressed for travel, it didn't slow her down, nor hinder her movement, and if the night's chill bothered her, she gave no sign of it. Were all Elves this durable, or was she an exception? There almost seemed to be a faint glow about her, that had nothing to do with the moonlight.

Her Time was fascinating, but Sharley tried not to examine it too closely; Jary, her foster-mother, had always told her that was rude, so she only did it if she felt like she had to. Galadriel had seen and endured and done more things than Sharley had ever dreamed of.

Well, technically she hadn't _seen_ more, since Sharley saw all of history whether she wanted to or not, but Galadriel had witnessed hers in person, not as some secondhand, hindsight observer. She had enough power to be damn terrifying if she chose, yet she was benevolent and kind.

"You remind me of my foster-mother," Sharley said abruptly. "Which is weird, because on the surface you're nothing alike, but you have the same…feeling, I guess. There's a warmth in you both that I've never seen in anyone else, and wisdom, I guess I'd call it. And _that_ isn't an age thing, because my father's ancient and he doesn't have the common sense God gave a goat."

Galadriel actually laughed gently. "Who is your foster-mother?"

"She's the god – well, goddess, but she doesn't like that word – of Life in the Other. She's loud and crude and swears like a sailor, but underneath it she can be so warm and calming and gentle. I'm kinda hoping she turns up, because it might well be we'll _really_ need her help, but I'm not holding the breath I don't actually have. The Other does kinda need her."

"That has not stopped others being brought here," Galadriel pointed out. "As I understand it, Earth needs many of those who have come from it, yet here they are."

"I wish I knew _why_," Sharley grumbled. "It isn't often there's anything I straight-up can't see, but I can't see _that_. Which worries the hell outta me. Anything that could hide something from me has to be really goddamn powerful.

"It is possible the Valar cloud your sight," Galadriel said. "Why, I do not know, but they do nothing without reason." She paused. "I know you wish to go on the quest to Mordor. Can you not destroy the Ring yourself?"

Sharley's steps faltered. "Technically, yes," she said. "But the only way I could do it might break Arda. I don't dare fool with Middle-Earth's magic. There's a lot I don't dare fool with. I'm kind of a useless sort-of deity, really – it's easy to break things, but a lot harder to fix them, so I just don't meddle."

"You are meddling now," Galadriel said.

"Because this is something that isn't supposed to be in Middle-Earth," Sharley said. "And I'll go with the Ring because that quest is supposed to happen, but most of the people who should be going with the Fellowship are too young, or haven't even been born. Out of the nine who ought to be goin, there's only Gandalf and Legolas, and in this timeline Legolas might have other shit to do. I might not be able to fiddle with the length of the journey, but I can basically be a walking shield. It's hard to kill something that's already dead. And when we get close enough, I can split off and cause a distraction. Sauron'll feel me coming, and if he has any brain at all, he'll send his goons after me instead."

"If he catches you, he will make you long for death," Galadriel warned.

Sharley smiled, strange and twisted with dark humor. "I would love to see him try."

* * *

The conversation with Bard and Dain lasted until dawn, but the combination of food and alcohol put Lorna to sleep long before them, with Marty on her lap and her head on Thranduil's shoulder.

She didn't wake until well after sunrise, and was relieved to find she hadn't drank enough to warrant a headache. She desperately needed to brush her teeth, however, and breathed a sigh of relief when Thranduil produced an Elven toothbrush from one of his TARDIS pockets.

"I'll kiss you once my teeth aren't coated in fuzz," she said, pouring some water into a cup to wet the brush. "How'd it go?"

"Aggravatingly," he grumbled, "but they accepted it in the end. They had little choice."

"Good," she said, opening the window so she could spit outside. "I'm surprised it didn't take longer, though."

"Marty had a large part to play in that. It is rather difficult to ignore such a warning when faced with the living dead."

"Especially such adorable living dead. Where is she now?"

"I do not know," he said. "She might not be a wraith, but she certainly comes and goes like one."

"True. I think she moves quieter than an Elf, and I didn't think that was possible." She rinsed her toothbrush, drying it on a hand-towel, and stuck it in her pocket. "All right, we've dropped that bomb – now what?"

"Now we present gifts, are entertained by various groups and dignitaries, and get through it all with many glasses of fine and not-so-fine wines."

Lorna laughed. "Try not to sound so thrilled. I suppose there's no way I can get out'v that and go exploring, is there?"

"As you are my wife, no, there is not. I have warned everyone that we cannot stay long, as we do in fact have rather pressing business to attend to. We will leave tomorrow."

That was both a relief and a disappointment. She didn't want to deal with a load of dinners and speeches, but she also didn't want to leave Dale itself so soon.

"Now come here – I believe you promised me a kiss," Thranduil said.

"Greedy," she said, but crossed the room to him. He had to lift her up onto an armchair to kiss her properly, and it left her _really_ wishing they didn't have to wait six weeks to get much further. Dammit.

She didn't even hear Bard's footsteps enter the kitchen – had no idea he'd come in at all until his rather strangled cough sounded at the door.

"I'll…come back later," he choked, and fled.

Lorna burst out laughing, resting her forehead on Thranduil's shoulder. "Oops," she said. "Why is it that whenever I kiss you, you taste like wine?" she asked, leaning back to look at him. "Do you carry around a flask and hit it every time no one's looking, or does your bloodstream just naturally carry that much alcohol?"

"That," he said seriously, "would be telling."

"In that case, I'm going to guess it's both. We should go do something, before we traumatize poor Bard again. I'm sure I need a hairbrush."

"That you do," he said, carding his fingers through the tangles. "We must present our gifts today. I'm curious as to what the Dwarves and Edain will make of Ratiri and his oxygen tanks."

"Probably look at us like we're all mad." She arched an eyebrow. "You know, I did say I'd bite you last night. Let's give Bard and Dain something else to be disturbed by." She pushed his collar out of the way and latched onto his neck, nipping hard enough to leave a bruise that would almost – _almost_ – be covered by the collar. She'd overheard someone wonder aloud if their marriage was legitimate or not, so she'd leave a little evidence.

Thranduil let out a strangled sound of surprise that made her laugh against his skin, but it was cut off when he shuddered, his arms wrapping around her and drawing her closer. Apparently that would do tingly things to her insides even while she was sober.

"You know," she said, "I did have a room, while I was staying here. As long as we're quiet, I don't see why we can't go fool around. It's early enough that we probably don't actually _need_ to be anywhere soon."

"Six weeks," he reminded her grimly, but his hands were tracing her spine.

She leaned back to look at him. "You and I both know there's plenty to do that doesn't involve putting Tab A into Slot Be. C'mon, Drag Queen Barbie. This is the closest thing to a honeymoon we're ever going to get, so we might as well make the most'v it while we've got anything like privacy."

"For someone entirely lacking in eloquence, you can be surprisingly persuasive."

"Oh, shut it," she said, and kissed him.

* * *

The inhabitants of Dale and Erebor were slow to rouse from the stupor of the previous night's feast. Even some of the Dwarves were clutching their heads, heavy and painful from too much drink.

Dain wasn't, though he wished he _could_ be. He wished he could dismiss the woodland sprite and all he'd had to say, but that _child_… Dain had never met a wight, but he'd heard of them. Nasty things they were, or were supposed to be; wicked creatures who wanted to steal life from the living. Little Marty was none of those things, but she was indisputably dead, and horribly so – something had tried to tear her apart, and very nearly succeeded. She was dead, but she walked and spoke and laughed the same as any living child. She was evidently could not be ignored.

Thought of two million more like her almost was not to be borne, however. That was vastly more than the population of Dale, Erebor, and all the lands around her. Dain prided himself that he was not an easy Dwarf to rattle, but that rattled him badly. War was supposed to be the living versus the living, not the living and the dead versus the truly immortal. Oh, the Elves said they were immortal, but they could still be killed, the same as any other creatures. This Thorvald sounded a bit like the Dark Lord – there was only one thing that could bring him down, and that Von Ratched man (hopefully) had it.

Dain shook himself, and went to his tent. Each time he visited Dale, Bard offered him breakfast, and each time, Dain managed to get both Bard and his children to eat with the Dwarves instead. Men might have an idea of what a proper breakfast should be, but there was never enough of it.

Sigrid and Tilda were already there, trying to eat between them a massive plate of bacon Balin had dished up. Bain was working on a four-inch stack of pancakes, looking slightly the worse for wear – he'd surely been into the ale last night.

Bard, visibly disturbed, joined them while Dain was loading his plate. "Do not go into my house," he warned quietly. "I must find some excuse to keep the girls away as well. Bain can take them to the Market, perhaps."

"What's happened?" Dain asked.

"There are newlyweds in it," Bard said, with a small shudder. "Make of that what you will."

It took Dain a moment to process that, but when he had, he almost wasn't hungry. Almost. "Well," he offered, after a pause, "at least the sprite'll be in a good mood later."

Bard covered his flaming face with his hands.

Geezer's voice was a welcome interruption, and the man himself appeared not too long after, trailed by Arandur, who translated his speech as, "He says he smells bacon, and that you can't know how much he's missed your beer."

Dain laughed. "Tell him I'll send a barrel back with him," he said. "That's what he's got in that mug, isn't it?" The thing in Geezer's hand couldn't even rightly be called a mug – it was more like a bowl with a handle.

"It is," Arandur sighed. "He has been drinking all night. How an Edain of his age can do that and still be _conscious_, I do not know. Katje and Ratiri certainly are not. I think the gift-giving must wait."

"For more than one reason," Bard muttered, pouring himself some of the Dwarves' thick, sweet tea.

Dain shuddered. "I don't need reminding."

* * *

It was, in fact, nearly noon before they all assembled in the pavilion, now cleared of the previous night's remnants. Bard and Dain each had a finely-made chair that was not quite a throne, because Bard couldn't be having with that sort of thing – it was one of the few things he had made very clear to both Dain and Thranduil, and though it had obviously puzzled them, they had humored him.

This was not a completely public spectacle, as the feast had been. Bard and his closest councilors, Dain and those few he had thought to bring, and several of Thranduil's retinue, including the Prince at the other three mortal men. Katje and Ratiri, whose name Bard had eventually caught last night, both looked rather the worse for wear, but Geezer, incredibly, was even now still drinking – Bard could smell the alcohol from ten feet away.

He almost couldn't look at Thranduil and Lorna. Both were outwardly pressed, well-groomed, and respectable, but they also each looked unnervingly self-satisfied, and Thranduil in particular looked remarkably relaxed – which for him meant he looked less like a mobile statue and more like an actual living being.

Prince Legolas stood not far from them, his expression visibly pained and long-suffering. It was oddly heartening to know that even thousand-year-old Elves could be embarrassed by their parents.

"What we bring you now is something no others in Middle-Earth yet possess," Thranduil said. "In his own world, Ratiri is a healer, and has demonstrated that its medicine is in many ways remarkable even to the Eldar."

Two Elves brought forward a chest, and from it took two things Bard in no way recognized: metal cylinders, tapered at one end with some kind of nozzle. A thin black tube was attached to it, on the other end of which was a black thing that looked like a mask.

"We have always known that mortals, when injured or ill, cannot always properly breathe. These, in essence, breathe for you, as we can demonstrate on a volunteer."

Sigrid hesitantly stepped forward – of course it would be Sigrid. She'd begun training as a healer immediately after the Battle of the Five Armies, and had not stopped since.

The man, Ratiri, took one of the cylinders and fixed the mask over her face, then pressed a small lever.

She inhaled deeply, and her eyes widened. "It's cold," she said, her voice slightly muffled by the mask.

"It would be," Thranduil said. "It has been concentrated, which according to Ratiri means he has compressed a great deal of it into a small space. Even I do not fully understand the process, but he can turn air into liquid."

"_What?_" Dain demanded. "Lady Sigrid, allow me to see that."

She beckoned Ratiri forward, and let him affix the mask to Dain's face. He too breathed deeply, and looked at Bard before removing the mask. "If that lung disease ever returns to Dale, these might keep you from losing so many people."

"It would," Thranduil affirmed. "The people of Ratiri's world are just as susceptible to illness as those of Middle-Earth, but they have found far more effective ways of treating it. He says that those who have access to all of their medicines routinely live eighty or ninety years."

It was all Bard could do not to gape. None save the Rangers of the North often lived that long; for a person of Esgaroth to reach eighty was nearly unheard-of.

Sigrid brought him the mask, which quite honestly looked rather threatening. When she held it up to his face, however, he realized why she and Dain had been so startled. The air _was_ cool, but inhaling it made him feel as though he had never in his life drawn true breath until now. It was almost intoxicating, and left him feeling lightheaded.

"These are only for use in cases of emergency or illness," Thranduil said. "They are incredibly difficult to make, so do not waste them. Store them where they will stay dry, and keep them away from fire. They will not spoil, but if they are too near open flame, they _will_ explode."

The Elves had given many remarkable gifts over the last five years, but this was easily the most remarkable – and it had been the invention of men. So far as Bard knew, never in the history of Middle-Earth had men crafted something superior to anything the Elves could make.

He removed the mask, handing it back to Sigrid. "My lord, would Ratiri someday be willing to train some of our healers in his ways?" _We might soon need them_, was the unspoken addition to that request.

Thranduil questioned the man in his own tongue, and Ratiri nodded, saying something in return. "He says yes," Thranduil said. "He also says that the healers of his world spend seven years learning their craft, and he cannot teach you all you need to know overnight."

"Even a little might be more than we could have dreamt of," Bard said.

"I will leave Arandur with you to translate," Thranduil said, and the young Elf positively beamed. "King Dain, some of what Ratiri will need will take your peoples' skill to craft."

"It sounds like it'll be worth it," Dain said, looking at the cylinders.

"Should you divine how to craft the proper tools, Ratiri can teach you how to replace failing hearts and lungs, and if he has the means to do so, something called a transfusion, which involves giving blood to one who has lost too much."

That…sounded impossible. All of it. But Thranduil would not lie to them; if he said this man could do that, do it he could.

"Geezer too I will leave with you," Thranduil said. "His knowledge of his world's weapons is extensive, and they are rather more effective than anything in Middle-Earth. Should the Battle of the Five Armies ever seek to repeat itself, you will have an advantage like no other."

The fact that the Elvenking was giving them so very much for nothing worried Bard, more than anything he'd said the previous night. It brought him the reality behind his warning. Bard couldn't comprehend the kind of war that would make such things necessary, but he was afraid that sooner or later, he was going to have to. Thank Eru they had the mountain to retreat to, if necessary – one of the first treaties he'd signed with Dain as allies gave them the right to find safety in Erebor, if Dale should ever be overrun. Dwarven doors were reinforced by magic; yes, Smaug had breached them, but Smaug was a _dragon_. Even Thranduil's gates wouldn't withstand a dragon attack forever.

"My lord, I do not know how we can ever repay you," he said.

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "You killed Smaug," he said. "That is payment enough, and then some. Someday I may show you why I could never bring myself to face a dragon again."

Both Lorna and Legolas gave him very startled looks – Legolas in particular. Whatever story lay behind that, Bard had little doubt it was a gruesome one.

"But enough of that," Thranduil said. "The day is fine. Let us waste no more of it speculating about war."

_That_ was a sentiment Bard wholly agreed with.

* * *

No sooner were they out of the pavilion than Legolas cornered his father. "Adar, you show that scar to no one," he said in Sindarin. "Why in Eru's name would you show it to Bard and Dain?"

His father sighed. "Things change, _ionneg_. They _are_ changing. There should, perhaps, be more honesty between our allies. We all have secrets."

"Have you shown it to Lorna?" Legolas liked the woman, but would she stay, if she knew what lay beneath his father's glamour? Edain could be notoriously shallow.

"I did not need to. She saw it the first time she met me – it is how I knew she was not an ordinary Edain."

"Well, that and the fact that I passed out thanks to the weight of his brain," Lorna said. "I've seen scars, Legolas. I was in prison with a woman who killed her husband because he pressed her face on a stove burner, and I have a couple nasty ones myself that your father has seen, uh, _because_."

Legolas was distressed to feel his face heat. Really, there were some things he just _did not_ need to think about. It really didn't help that last night he'd overheard a few people speculating as to how their, ah, marital relations even _worked_, given their size disparity. It had been all he could do not to be sick.

"I'm not just going to ditch your father, Legolas," she added, giving said father a look that was equal parts affection and aggravation. "He won't even let me go after Thorvald on my own, even though I've _showed_ him I can take care'v myself."

"Wait, _what_? Adar, if war is coming, you cannot simply _leave_," Legolas said in disbelief.

"I leave to ensure war does _not_ come here," his father said gravely. "You and Tauriel have long told me that we cannot hide and wait for evil to find us."

It was true, but this was not at all what he had meant. Trust his father to twist his words. Unfortunately, there was no refusing his logic. "Then I am coming with you."

"You cannot, _ionneg_. Should we fail – should war reach these lands anyway – the Woodland Realm will look to you as their prince. You have experience with Bard and Dain that no steward or regent would possess."

He had a point, galling though it was. _One_ of them had to stay behind, but Legolas wished it need not be him.

"I'll get your father home in one piece," Lorna said, and there was no jest in her tone. He thought of the damage she had wrought in the training halls without touching a thing – he had seen a shield, one of the tall ones used by the pikemen, crumpled into a ball. He had to remind himself that, though she was small and mortal, she was far from helpless.

"I hope," he said. "I have no wish at all to be king."

* * *

Sorry, Bard and Dain, but better you find out this way than when Von Ratched drops something nasty on your doorstep. There is a bonus porn-y chapter in this story on my AO3 account, should anyone be interested in that sort of thing. (Hey, Lorna's right: it really _is_ the closest thing to a honeymoon they're ever going to get.)

Title means "Gifts" in Irish. You know the drill: reviews are fuel.


	48. Contúirt

In which Geezer has a vision, everybody hurries to head home early, and Sharley is a teensy bit terrifying.

* * *

Lorna might be looking forward to a feast in Erebor, but Thranduil most definitely was not. Fortunately for him, Geezer happened – or more accurately, one of his seizures did.

He was in the middle of talking with Bard when it did, scaring the life out of the poor man and Arandur, even though the Elf had apparently seen one of them before.

Tilda had been dispatched to find Ratiri, who was answering an endless stream of Sigrid's questions through Lorna's translation. "There is something wrong with Geezer," she said, slightly breathless from her run. "He is unconscious, and he is twitching."

"Seizure," Lorna said, translating to Ratiri. He immediately took off after Tilda, with Lorna in tow.

Thranduil followed as well, unease sitting in his stomach like a lead weight. Thus far, none of Geezer's fits of prophecy had showed them anything good, and he strongly doubted this would be any exception. If this didn't necessitate them needing to pack up and leave early, he would be very surprised.

What he wouldn't give for a car and a straight road. Had they one, the distance from Dale to the Woodland Realm could be covered in hours, not days. As it was, even if he pushed the elk at a full run, it would take at least two.

Geezer, he found, was indeed twitching, sprawled on the ground with someone's cloak hastily folded and shoved under his head like a pillow. His faded blue eyes were wide, his pale, bloodless face utterly void of expression – it was unnerving, and it took a great deal to unnerve Thranduil. Like this, staring at nothing, his mind invaded by visions not his own, the man looked truly alien.

Ratiri knelt beside him, attempting to take his pulse through his thrashing, but making no attempt to restrain them. Thranduil would have thought it prudent to hold him still, but Ratiri was an Edain healer, accustomed to treating other Edain – he would know what he was doing.

"Lorna," Thranduil said, "can you read his mind, while he is like this?"

"Probably," she said, "but I don't dare try. I don't know if it would hurt him or not."

She had a point. Edain minds were so much more fragile than those of the Eldar, as they had both learned the hard way.

It took a good ten minutes for Geezer to still, during which time they gathered a rather large crowd of onlookers. His face had gone grey, his brow beaded with sweat, and Ratiri hurried to test his pulse, pressing an ear to his chest to listen to his breathing.

"His vitals aren't steady, but they're there," he said. "I wouldn't dare move him yet, though."

Thranduil knelt beside the unconscious man, laying a hand on his clammy brow. His fëa was firmly anchored, at least, but he needed Elvish medicine. "Lorna, fetch Galasríniel. He will live, but without aid, he will not be pleased when he wakes."

Off Lorna went, and Thranduil sighed. "I wish I knew how his curse worked," he said. "I wish I knew how _all _your curses work. Your magic is so unlike anything I have ever encountered, good or ill."

"I don't think _anyone _knows how they work, even in our own world," Ratiri said. "It's what Von Ratched was trying to work out, and as far as I know, he failed before he came here. I don't even want to know what sort of damage he's done, now that he _is _here. He won't have had the tools he needs to experiment, but I wouldn't put it past him to invent them, sooner or later. The bastard's a ruthless genius, and from what I could tell, he needs almost as little sleep as an Elf."

In spite of himself, Thranduil wanted to meet this man – though 'meet' was not entirely accurate. He wanted to tear Von Ratched's mind apart, for what he'd done to Lorna in this timeline, and what he _would _have done in the other. Such a creature should not be allowed to retain sanity, but he couldn't do it yet – not until their need for him had passed. Once Thorvald had been dealt with, Thranduil would destroy Von Ratched, and he would not do it swiftly. Lorna would not be able to stop him, but he doubted she would _want _to. She had a streak of her father's cruelty that she had fought all her life to subsume. So far she had mostly managed it, but if anything was likely to be able to break her hold on it, it would be Von Ratched.

Geezer grabbed his hand, his grip shockingly strong for an old man. "Gondor," he said, his voice little more than a harsh rasp. "Get your army and go to Gondor, _now_. Von Ratched…" He fell silent, drawing a breath of hissing pain.

"We must stop him," Thranduil said. "I know."

"Not stop," Geezer whispered. "_Help._"

Before Thranduil could ask _why_, the man lost consciousness again.

* * *

Sharley and Galadriel had walked all night, taking a short break only at dawn. They'd been walking again for several hours, the sun now well up in the sky, when they ran across possibly the ugliest creature Sharley had ever seen.

It was human-ish, in that it had legs and arms and something recognizable as a face, but it looked _diseased_. Its skin was a mottling of grey and black, with scraggly, thin hair, and ears pointed like an Elf's. And it was running so fast that it didn't spot them until it had almost run into them.

"What the hell is _that _thing?" Sharley asked, giving it a solid punch to the jaw, and stepping on its chest to keep it down.

"An orc," Galadriel said, and though her pale face was serene as ever, there was worry and confusion lurking in her voice. "They almost never travel alone, and yet I sense no more of them for many leagues."

The thing thrashed beneath Sharley's boot, but it was weak, possibly from starvation, if its bony arms were any indication. She didn't have the language to question it, but she didn't need to – she focused on the lines of its Time, searching out the threads of its history.

_It was alone because the few of its brethren that weren't dead were scattered. Once they had had a foothold in the Grey Mountains, many thousands strong, until _they _came._

_The creatures that attacked were not, Sharley saw, Memories, but her relief was short-lived – they might not be Memories, but nor were they any manner of walking dead she had ever known. Their eyes were _black_, twin wells of darkness that seemed to suck at the light around them, and their movements were odd and jerky, unnatural as a puppet. They looked as though they had once been human, not orc or Elf._

_But the problem, the _biggest _problem, was that they were following this orc. And they were less than a day away._

She blinked, and looked at Galadriel. "Are there any humans – mortals – living in the Grey Mountains?"

"No," she said. "Not for many a year. There are far too many orcs."

"Motherfucker." That meant these things weren't from here, but they sure as fuck hadn't come from Earth or the Other, unless something had gone catastrophically wrong in the brief time she'd been away. "There's something nasty ahead of us," she said. "You'll probably start feeling it soon, if my being close doesn't screw up your senses. We've gotta stop it – them – before they get to Dale and Erebor."

"Can we do that on our own?"

Sharley smiled slowly. "The two of us? Of course we can." She stomped on the orc's neck, snapping it like a pencil. "Let's go."

It took several hours for Geezer to wake and actually be coherent enough to speak. They'd moved him into one of Bard's spare rooms (thankfully not the one Lorna and Thranduil had been in), where Galasríniel forced several unpleasant concoctions on him.

Thranduil grew ever more worried. The only reason he could think of for them to help Von Ratched was if Thorvald had arrived, and if that was the case, with the Ring still loose in the world, they might well be doomed.

He wished Galadriel and Sharley had not left for Angmar, but no doubt there really was something there that needed their attention. It would be months yet before Mithrandir would reach the Woodland Realm with the hobbit – another very good reason for Legolas to remain, because no matter what, Thranduil would have been gone by the time they arrived.

Finally Geezer managed to drink some tea, though when he spoke, he still sounded as though his throat had been scoured with gravel. "Von Ratched's been tapping into people's minds since he got here," he said. "It's like a disease – he infects one person, and that person infects whoever they touch. But now he's got most of the populated areas of Gondor, and he can use them as spies, right? Well, he can also control them, if he wants to – he just chooses not to because that would make his presence pretty damn obvious."

"And?" Thranduil prompted.

"And something's gonna make him do it anyway," Geezer said, grimacing as he sipped more tea. "Dunno what, but I saw him do it. You've gotta get there before he does – he doesn't know what dong that'll do, because nobody's ever done it before. Using _that much _magic wouldn't end well."

"The storm," Lorna said, her eyes widening.

"Huh?" Geezer asked.

"There was a storm, when Thranduil and I met Aelis in one o the might-have-been's. That's what caused it – Von Ratched screwing with too many people at once."

"How do you know?" Thranduil asked.

"I never stopped having the dreams," she said. "He wanted to hit the organization of the cursed – the DMA, it was called – but he wanted to cause a massive distraction first, so he tapped a lot'v people like that and used them all at once, attacking military installations all over America. What he didn't know was that throwing so much magic around at once would bugger up the weather – he wound up destroying most'v the continent by mistake." She looked at Geezer, and then at Thranduil. "Middle-Earth's not much bigger than North America. If he manages something on that scale, there won't be much left to oppose Sauron, even if Thorvald doesn't get here first. Only consolation's that he'd get hit as bad as the rest'v us."

Even with that, it was still not a thought to be borne. "Geezer, you have said the future cannot be changed," Thranduil said.

"No," Geezer said, "it can't, but it can be…altered. Doesn't have to do as much damage. Once Sharley's got her ass back here from dealing with Angmar, I'll send her your way. She knows Von Ratched, and she ain't best pleased with him."

"She does?" Ratiri asked, startled. "_How?_"

"Institute wasn't his first hospital – it was just the worst of 'em. When she was still alive, she was his prisoner for a while."

No, she would not be pleased with him. _That _was a reunion Thranduil wanted to watch. From a safe distance. "Pack everything," he said to Galasríniel. "We leave tonight. We can cover a few miles before dark."

* * *

The order to pack alarmed Tauriel, but she also wasn't surprised. She'd known things couldn't stay quiet forever.

Already there were whispers that they would be marching to Gondor – Gondor! Legolas had confided it to her, but she'd been expecting it. Never had she thought the King would take their words to heart, and certainly not like _this_. He must have been told something truly terrible by one of their seers, or he would never have thought to send a company so far from home, let alone gone with it.

Would she be going with them, or would she stay in the Woodland Realm? Logically, it would be the latter, for Legolas trusted her. Mercifully, he seemed to have abandoned whatever inappropriate feelings he'd had for her while out in the wild with the Rangers, or this would be very uncomfortable. It was a relief to have her _friend _back, as only a friend.

A friend who would need all the help he could get. Being a prince was a very different thing from being a king, and he had spent as much time as he could being anything but princely. He was very likely in for a nasty shock. Fortunately, their people loved him, and would do their best not to make his life unduly difficult – and he _did _have much experience as a commander. Still, this was not something he was likely to enjoy.

Nor, she was sure, would the King. He had not been so far from home since the Last Alliance, and had not left the Woodland Realm at all since the battle that cost him the Queen. For all his determination, he was likely to find this quest even more unpleasant than everyone else. At least if he fell into brooding melancholy, he had Lorna to smack him out of it. Possibly literally.

But how would _she _fare, undertaking such a journey so soon after giving birth? Birthing children was immensely taxing for Elven women, and it was likely much the same with Edain. More than once, she had looked grey and tired even on this short journey to Dale; the long trek to Gondor might be more than she could handle. And if anything happened to her, the King might well lose his mind. Somehow, after their violent, turbulent history, he really did seem to truly love her. Whenever he inevitably lost her, to injury or merely old age, it might well break him.

But _that _was not a thought Tauriel could dwell on. Perhaps they would all die, in whatever war was to come. The Valar would sort things out after that. As she understood it, they usually did. Meanwhile, they had a camp to pack up.

* * *

Lorna was temporarily at loose ends, since she'd only get in the way if she tried to help the Elves pack. She sat with Geezer while he recovered, watching as a little color started to come back to his face.

"Will you teach the Dwarves how to make guns?" she asked.

"I'll try. I'm sure they'll figure it out sooner or later. I just hope we're not gonna need 'em."

"If we succeed in Gondor, you might not." She sighed. "D'you ever wonder how much damage we're doing to Middle-Earth, by bringing all this modern shite to it?"

"A lot, lately," he said, struggling to sit up. "I wouldn't even _mention _guns if I didn't think I had to. Ratiri's stuff, the medical supplies and everything, I can't see how _that _could be bad, but our weapons? They'd be a game-breaker for whoever had 'em. Even Elvish armor'd be no match for a grenade, let alone anything heavier. And to tell you the truth, I wouldn't even trust the Elves with guns."

"Really?" she asked, surprised. "Why not?"

"Because once they got over being horrified by what they could do, they'd start finding more and more uses for 'em. Oh, they'd take care of the orcs first, and goblins and wargs, but they weren't always so benevolent and wise, and guns'd bring out the worst in 'em."

"In the Noldor, maybe, but most'v them are dead," Lorna said, but she had an uneasy suspicion that Geezer wasn't wholly wrong. Give Thranduil cause to hold a grudge against someone, she was quite sure he'd cap them in a heartbeat.

"You'd be surprised," Geezer said. "I hope that you don't ever have to learn that killing people can be addictive, if you think they deserve to die. And the longer you're at war, the easier it is to think someone deserves it. I don't know that I ever killed anyone on purpose in 'Nam, but some of the guys in my unit, guys who'd been there a while…war changes people. If it comes to it, don't let it change you."

It could, she knew, all too easily. In one way at least, she was her father's daughter, and while her temper had been markedly reduced in Middle-Earth, she couldn't trust that that would hold indefinitely. Lorna had never killed anyone on purpose either, but that was because in the red-misted grip of fury, she'd wanted them to suffer instead. There was a dark, horrible part of her that only Thranduil knew about, twisted and cruel, and she'd tried all her life to contain it, since she knew she'd never banish it.

Seeing Von Ratched again might break that container. Thranduil would have to stop her then, if that was even possible, because it wasn't just what the bastard had done to her, it was what he _would _have done, in that other timeline.

She shuddered. "I'll try not to, but I can't make any promises," she admitted. "I don't really know what I'm capable of, and I'll try not to find out."

The look Geezer gave her was distinctly pitying, which did nothing at all for her nerves.

* * *

Though Galadriel did not ask for a rest that night, Sharley halted anyway, no doubt to ensure that she could find with her full strength. Their respite was brief, but welcome; whatever they were to face, it was preferable not to face it on an empty stomach.

The moon, still not quite full, rose while they sat, silvering the grasses. The trees were sparse here, fir rather than oak or beech, still smelling of the day's sunshine. This far out, the land had not been scorched by dragonfire, and had sat untouched for many a year.

"When we reach the…things," Sharley said, "I want you to stay near me. I know how powerful you are, but even _I _don't know what these things are, or where they came from. If I have to, I'll go right into 'em, and you can do your thing at a distance. Neither you or they can hurt me, and I can keep 'em distracted."

"What if we are overrun?" Galadriel asked. There were few forces in Middle-Earth that Nenya could not overcome, but these creatures were not _from_ Middle-Earth.

"We won't be," Sharley said, sounding utterly sure. "I've got my father's sword. I don't want to have to use it, but I will if I need to." She ran her fingers over the scabbard, an odd mingling of resentment and longing in her eyes.

"If they are already dead, you cannot kill them," Galadriel said, rising. She had had rest enough, and she would prefer to get this over with.

"With this thing? Yes, I can," Sharley said, standing with unnerving silence. "This could kill me, or Jary, or Gandalf. Hell, the only reason I can't kill _Sauron _with it is because he took precautions with that damn ring. My foster-mother is Life, Lady Galadriel, but my father is Death, and this is his sword."

She was telling the truth, Galadriel saw, her odd eyes shining in the moonlight. What an odd, horrific sort of world she must live in, that such things as life and death must manifest as people. It also made Sharley far more unsettling, while at the same time explaining a few things – it would seem there was more than one reason for living creatures to fear her. It was only a mercy she was an ally. "When you said you could break the world, you meant it, didn't you?"

Sharley laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I could," she said. "Breaking things is easy. _Fixing _them is the hard part, and it's the part I can't do, so I mostly just sit back and watch. I don't dare do much else."

Further words were cut off by a rustling in the grass – it was faint, and very far off, but it was not an animal. Nor was it isolated; whatever crept toward them moved in a very large group. Orcs would have made far more noise, as would wargs in such numbers.

"And here we go," Sharley said. "Let's get this over with."

Off they went, though in no hurry – there was no point in haste, with their enemy coming to meet them. Slow though they went, the nearer they drew, the greater a sense of _wrongness _grew in Galadriel's mind. She had felt and faced great evil in her life, but this was something else entirely, something that grated on her very fëa like mortar on pestle. It felt even more alien than Sharley, which Galadriel would not have thought possible.

The spring night ought to have been chilly, yet the further they went, the warmer the air grew, moisture leeched from it as though they walked in a desert rather than a forest. A strange, hot, metallic scent assailed her, rather like what one found in a forge. A great many people, even her own, would be surprised she had _been_ in a forge, but there were few not living who remembered that she had been a warrior, that her epessë had once been Artanis, the Man-Maiden. Just because she had not needed a sword in an age did not mean she could not use one.

The rustling grew clearer, but strangely, not any louder; these things, whatever they were, might not be as stealthy as Elves, but they were far more so than Edain or Dwarves, and that worried her. Creatures with the capacity for stealth were likely more than mindless animals.

Sharley watched the treeline, her expression unnervingly blank. Galadriel had long though Thranduil like a statue, but next to Sharley, he was as lively and animated as her grandsons. The effect was not helped at all by the fact that she drew no breath.

The first of the creatures lurched its way from the trees, and Galadriel stared at it with a mix of fascination and revulsion.

It looked like it had once been an Edain, a young woman with long golden hair, now matted with blood. Its skin was so pale it was translucent, the veins on its face rendered as black as its empty eyes. Its movements were jerky and unnatural, but its expression was not vacant – there was still some manner of intelligence lurking in its mind.

And it radiated malice of a sort she had never encountered, so much so that it felt like a solid force. While it was no stronger than some that she had seen, it was so very alien that she was repelled.

"Give your magic a shot, Lady Galadriel," Sharley said quietly. "Let's see what it does against these fuckers."

She was willing to try, but she had her doubts as to how well it would work. The Three Rings had been crafted to protect and create, not to destroy. Raising her right hand, she whispered an incantation that had not been used in an age, feeling the full power of Nenya stir within her. So long had she kept it leashed until Dol Guldur five years ago, and in all that time she had not forgotten the feel of it, the sheer strength that flowed through her veins, hard and unbreakable as the Misty Mountains.

Blinding light flashed through the sky, hot as lightning, spreading out through every corner of the horizon. The creature fell as though shot from behind, limp and lifeless – dead now, truly dead, as were all that followed it.

Sharley stared at her. "Remind me never to piss you off," she said. "We'd better make sure everybody behind them bit it, too."

In one way, Galadriel almost hoped that they had not. Such power as the Rings held could be addictive, which was why they were so seldom actually used, and she would wield it once more, if she could, before containing it again.

They paused to examine one of the things, before continuing on to the trees. Up close, they were even more revolting. They had once been Edain, twisted by Eru knew what. "This was alive," she said, her hand hovering above its face, for she could not bring herself to touch it. "The skin is still warm."

Sharley didn't respond – she focused on one of them intently, then another, and a third. "I don't know where they came from," she said slowly. "Unless your Valar are still screwing with me, that shouldn't be possible."

She ran a hand through the thing's hair, though what she searched for, Galadriel could not guess. "They had a door," she said, "but it's closed now. Hopefully if we destroy it, it can't rebuild itself. We can't afford to stick around here and watch for long, but I wouldn't feel safe leaving Dale and Erebor open to any future invasions. I doubt these things would be easy to take down with conventional weapons – not in any real numbers."

"There are more out there," Galadriel said. "I can feel them. Are you certain their door is closed?"

Sharley stood. "Yeah," she said. "It just must have let an assload of them through before it shut."

They moved on, while the moon rose ever higher, lighting trees and grass until it was near as bright as day. The unnatural heat intensified, and a breeze began to stir the air, though it did little to dispel the stifling, choking dryness. The odd metallic scent grew stronger, until Galadriel could taste it, but for a good quarter of an hour, they found none of the creatures still living. The woodland floor was a carpet of corpses, for there had been a staggering number of them – and might well be an equal number more still alive between here and Angmar. Angmar, which was still so many miles away.

Sure enough, there soon came more rustling, telltale and distinctive, and Sharley went still.

"Lady Galadriel," she said softly, "if you could so something you knew would be effective, and would save you valuable time, but was totally horrible, would you do it?"

"That would depend on the thing," Galadriel said. "And the need. Why?"

"I don't think we can afford the time it would take to hunt down each and every one of these things by hand. You're sure there aren't any actual people living in these mountains?"

"Yes. The orcs allow no others a foothold."

Sharley shut her eyes. "I can't order you not to tell anyone what I'm about to do," she said, "but I wish you would keep it to yourself. I know touching me isn't any fun, but put your hand on my back or my shoulder, will you? It'll keep you safe."

"From what?" Galadriel asked, doing as bidden with an amount of trepidation that shamed her.

"From me." Sharley raised the sword, and when one of the lurching things approached, she swung at it –

-and for one agonizing, eternal moment, all of Galadriel's senses shut down, overwhelmed by a force as horrible as it was foreign. When they began to resurface, she heard a crack so loud it might well have broken the earth beneath her feet, accompanied by a flash of darkness like reverse lightning. The ground shuddered, and for a moment, just a moment, the air reeked of carrion. It was almost enough to drive her to her knees, but Sharley caught her before she could fall.

When her vision restored itself, she saw with horror that all before them – the trees and grass, as well as the creatures – was dead. The green of the fir needles had given way to brown, the grasses parched and withered, stretched out as far as her eyes could see.

She looked at Sharley, and recoiled. "Did your sword to that?"

Sharley nodded. "Told you there was a reason I didn't want to use it," she said, and there was an odd sort of sorrow in her voice. "We're not done yet, though. That door is still there." A faint ghost of a smile crossed her lips. "Wanna destroy Angmar?"

Galadriel stared at her. She had known that Sharley was possibly a very great threat, but she was only now realizing _how _great. "If it is Sauron's attention you want, you certainly have it _now_," she said. "His, and that of every other higher being in Middle-Earth. I do not think I want to know how you would go about destroying a kingdom, even a dead one."

Sharley said nothing for a moment. "You could go back," she said. "There's no reason you need to see it. Go find Thranduil – I'll catch up with you later."

She ought to. She ought to warn Thranduil what a nightmare of an ally they had, but she could not. For no reason even she could fathom, she felt compelled to follow Sharley – even if only to see what she did. "No," she said. "I will go with you." And pray that sword would not see use again.

* * *

Whelp, Sauron'll be good and interested now. At least it'll keep his attention off everything going down in Gondor.

Title means "Danger" in Irish. You know the drill: reviews make my week.


	49. Réitigh

In which everyone who's planning to march to war gets ready, and Sharley is a teensy bit more terrifying. Just a bit.

* * *

Lorna and Thranduil reached the halls far more swiftly than everyone else, because the elk could easily outpace any horse.

It made the journey both terrifying and uncomfortable – terrifying because she was so high off the ground, and uncomfortable because, though the elk's stride was smoother than that of a horse's, there was still a fair bit of jolting. Fortunately, Galasríniel had sent a painkiller cordial with her, or she would really be hating life right now.

"What do I need to pack?" she asked, as soon as they'd got the elk stabled.

"Yours need only be basic," Thranduil said, leading her into the halls. "Food and water, spare clothes, whatever toiletries you wish. As you have no proficiency with a weapon, I will teach you along the way, but I will find you one. What you really must focus on is your telekinesis. Fortunately, there is much for you to practice _on _between here and Gondor."

The idea was rather appealing. She hadn't used her telekinesis at all while she'd been pregnant, for fear that it would somehow harm the babies, but she didn't need to worry about that now. They were safe and sound now, and would remain so until everyone returned. Thranduil's gates, she knew, were reinforced by magic; anything that could get through them would have already killed everybody outside them.

She didn't have many spare clothes, but there were a few odds and ends lurking in Thranduil's wardrobe. Having lost so much muscle, could she even properly _carry _a pack? An exercise regimen was another thing she'd have t practice along the way, because right now she had all the strength of a lima bean with cancer.

Climbing all these damn stairs was a good start, though she was annoyed to find herself out of breath halfway. Thranduil looked down at her, and reached to pick her up, but she shook her head.

"I'm never going to get better if I'm coddled," she said. "Getting my strength back is going to suck, but there's no way around it."

"If you push yourself too hard, you will only make it worse," he pointed out.

"Climbing stairs isn't 'pushing' much'v anything, but I'd like to slow down. I've got to take three steps for every one'v yours." Lorna knew he didn't mean to move so fast – he was so tall that he simply couldn't help it. He was going to have to start helping it when they traveled, however, or he'd leave her miles behind in no time at all, and there was no way she was riding that elk the whole bloody way to bloody Gondor. She hadn't been joking about airsickness.

He arched an eyebrow. "Do not go _too _slowly," he said. "This might well be the last true privacy we will have for months. I would rather make the most of it."

Lorna laughed. "Okay, you can carry me, but just this once."

* * *

Angmar's history was so oppressive that Sharley could feel it miles before they actually reached the accursed place. It was fortunate that Memories weren't native to Middle-Earth, because this place could have produced them by the thousand.

From all she could see, its ruin was Sauron's fault, as most of what was wrong with Middle-Earth seemed to be. A morbid part of her really, really wanted to meet the bastard, even if she couldn't actually kill him while the Ring endured. Her ability to feel pain had mostly be lost when she died, along with her ability to feel almost everything else; he could torture her all he liked and get no result, and if he dared enter her mid, he'd run into everything else that lived there. And _that _would be amusing as hell.

Though the voices had been weirdly quiet while she traveled with Galadriel. They were still _there_ – she could always feel them, even when they didn't speak – but they were largely silent. _That _was extremely odd, but she thought she knew why: they probably didn't want to risk Galadriel hearing them. Telepaths, as they and Sharley knew, could hear them, as they'd all learned the hard way with Von Ratched, and Galadriel was a far more telepath than he was.

Whatever the reason, they were nearly to Angmar, and she was certain that the evil of the place would grate on her even if she couldn't see its Time. It was almost…sticky, like a film of half-congealed oil on her skin, and it had an odd, bitter taste unlike anything she'd ever encountered. Though the sun shone behind them, the sky over it swirled with an angry boil of dark clouds.

"Pleasant," she muttered, pausing when they crested a hill.

Looking at the desolation below them, it was difficult to believe it had ever been alive. There had probably once been towns and cities, but there was little of that left of them now – there were ruins, but nothing more. Whatever had happened here had happened with a vengeance, and left nothing in its wake. She didn't particularly want to check what it was, either.

The door that the…things…had come through was indeed closed, but it was ridiculously easy to find. Unlike the Other, rips in this universe weren't exactly common, and this was a big one – but where the hell had it come from?

She sought its Time, sorting through the ugly threads of Angmar's history, but as with the creatures themselves, she found nothing. Not where the door went, or where it came from, or how to lock it. Whoever had made it, however, probably hadn't counted on the fact that it _could _be destroyed.

"Lady Galadriel," she said quietly, "touch my back, and stay behind me. Whatever you do, don't break away."

"What will happen if I do?"

Sharley looked at her. "I don't know," she said. "And I'd rather not find out."

"Sharley, have you ever done this before?" Galadriel's blue eyes were somehow every bit as Sharley's father's.

"…No," she admitted. "Not on this scale. But I know that I can."

Galadriel did not look at all reassured by that, and Sharley couldn't blame her.

"It'll be okay," she said. "Touch my back, and hold still."

_The nasty lines of Angmar's Time drifted everywhere, displaced by the door. There was little that Sharley could physically feel in the present, but when she immersed herself in Time, past or future, she felt as close to alive as she possibly could. Time was a living thing, with a deep, massive pulse that replaced the heartbeat she no longer had, sang through her veins in a simulation of blood._

_She gathered the threads, their poisoned heat burning her as they twined around her fingers. It was rare that she found Time that had actually be rendered toxic, but this would cleanse it, would sterilize with fire not seen, but felt._

_The lingering evil in it lashed out at her, but all it gave her was a dull, distant memory of pain, and she welcomed even that, because it was _feeling_, it was a faint approximation of _life_, and Sharley laughed as she gathered the last of the Time-lines and _tore.

_The fire took her, burning from the inside out, and for a moment, just a moment, she felt herself breathe without consciously willing it. Angmar's wounded history shattered all around her, and she had to contain the ripple effect, or it would create a paradox the like of which she could never hope to control. She wanted to destroy _it_, not half of Middle-Earth, and as she'd told Lady Galadriel, breaking things was all too easy._

_Angmar screamed in her mind, but it abruptly fell silent. The fire within her died; her scorched fingers cooled and healed. She came back to the present, grieving the loss of her senses as she opened her eyes._

There was nothing left of Angmar, or the door; the land, though still barren, lived, and would continue living.

She turned to Galadriel, and winced when she saw total horror in the Elf-woman's eyes. The reaction didn't surprise her, but that didn't mean she had to like it.

"Angmar is gone?" Galadriel asked, outwardly remarkably composed, for the most part.

"Angmar," Sharley said, "never was."

* * *

Fortunately, Thranduil and Lorna were both dressed again and making preparations when it hit, or things would have turned _very _awkward.

Never in all his life had he felt anything like it. Someone, somewhere, had expended an immense amount of power – power that was completely and totally alien. He could think of only one source for it, too.

"Sharley?" Lorna said, eyes wide.

"I certainly hope so," he said. "I would rather not even consider there being another here who could use such power. Galadriel will likely have a very interesting story to tell us, when next we see her." Whether Sharley meant to or not, she had just set unrest in motion all over Middle-Earth, for none who felt that would allow it to remain without investigation. Elrond, Saruman, _Sauron_…well, if nothing else, she would prove a very effective distraction.

Lorna snorted. "You're probably right. How long does it take to get to Gondor?" she asked, apropos of nothing.

"In spring, with fair weather, two months," he said, rolling an under-robe very tightly. "Longer, if the roads have fouled over the winter and not yet been repaired. We had best hope Von Ratched finds no reason to use his unwitting puppets before then, or there will be little we can do."

"God do I wish we had a car," she sighed, stuffing spare socks into her pack. "Even my old van, which was a lemon from hell. I crossed three thousand miles in two months, and that was with plenty of stops."

"My smiths did attempt to craft the shell of a car," Thranduil said. "It was the engine that stymied us."

"You'd need more than an engine. Maybe someday we'll get an actual mechanic here. Wouldn't mind seeing Shane again."

Shane – leader of her gang, he knew, and the one who had taught her to fight, among many other things. He had been to her some bizarre amalgamation of elder brother and father, and she was more than a little like him. Thranduil would not mind his arrival, though Eru knew what Legolas would make of the man if he did. "_That _would certainly prove…entertaining," he said. "I would love to inflict the entirety of your old gang on the Council."

"Sure God wouldn't that be a mess." She stuffed the last of her spare clothes in her pack. "There, that's done. Now what?"

"It will be at least another day before the swiftest of the riders reaches us," he said, helping her to her feet. "I've sent out the summons to those of my army that live elsewhere, so that all will be gathered within the next two days. Until then, I can think of one or two ways to pass the time."

She arched an eyebrow at him. "I just bet you can. It's too bad we'll be surrounded by people in the middle'v nowhere in five weeks."

"The middle of nowhere I cannot help," he said. "We need not be surrounded by people, however. Hardly ideal, I know, but not impossible."

"_You're _impossible," she said, swatting him on the arm. "Now get that dress off before I wreck all your buttons again. You really ought to wear a toga, just to make things more convenient."

* * *

Hundreds of miles away, Von Ratched was wondering what the hell had just happened.

The common people hadn't noticed, but he felt like he'd been punched in the brain. And he had no idea why – nor did he have any way of finding out. His network of unknowing spies was not nearly big enough, because everything and everyone in this benighted world moved so _slowly_. Even when he was young, things had not been _this _primitive.

He was quite sure no other cursed had done it, because no human, no matter how strong their curse, could have done something so massive. The wizards would not, and Sauron was still safe and weak in Mordor. Galadriel, possibly, though like the wizards, she was unlikely to do something so…noticeable. Not without very great reason, anyway.

With a sigh of frustration, he went to the chest of drawers in his room, removing a glass vial and his hand-forged syringe. He had a morphine addiction that went back nearly a century, and while he could not derive real morphine in Minas Tirith, he had distilled a decent substitute from poppies taken from the houses of healing (which, quite honestly, had horrified him. It was called _leechcraft _for a reason).

The rush of the drug soothed him – as much as it actually could, anyway. All his life, Von Ratched had hated not knowing something, but there was as yet no getting around the limitations of Middle-Earth's medieval technological levels.

He knew several ways of generating electricity, but he lacked several of the raw materials, including any way to make wire delicate enough to produce filaments for a light bulb. The Dwarves could likely do it, but Dwarves, apparently, did not travel this far south. The smiths in Minas Tirith seemed to specialize in weapons and armor, with a few dedicated to jewelry and decorative items, none of which were useful at all to him.

For now, he had to find some way of defending against whatever had used such power, but he knew already that that was likely impossible. Damn this world and its supernatural beings. Von Ratched had always been at the top of the food chain, whether those around him knew it or not; he very much wasn't, to his mounting irritation. On Earth, he had preferred to work in the shadows because it was convenient, but for now it was a matter of survival. There were too many beings whose attention he could not afford to draw – not yet.

His network of would-be puppets was not as vast as he would like, but it was big enough. Elves would hesitate to kill humans, and would suffer psychological distress if they did. It might not be a proper Kinslaying, but it would be rather close, since humans, like Elves, were Children of Ilúvatar, and this was not the First Age. The truly bloodthirsty Elves were long dead. If he could not overpower them, he could psychologically overwhelm them. Everyone had their breaking point – and then he could use the weapons he'd designed. So long as Galadriel stayed where she belonged, he could devastate the Elven armies of Middle-Earth. What he would do if she did not, he had yet to divine, but he had better think of something, and soon. He couldn't be sure how much time he had.

* * *

It took two days for the rest of the Elves to arrive at the Woodland Halls, and by then Thranduil had nearly finished all the preparations needed to march to war. Swords were sharpened, and the heavy armor seldom worn by his soldiers had been checked and checked again. Packs for each were put together, carrying rations and water, with room for personal items.

Lorna had at first refused armor, pointing out that she was in no physical condition to even move in it. He had some basic plate forged anyway, because she would be much stronger by the time they reached Gondor. He didn't think she properly comprehended what two months on foot would do to an Edain body – she would likely be in the best condition of her life by the time they reached Minas Tirith.

While he was busy preparing, she exercised her telekinesis, which was often a source of frustration for her. The weight and size of the things she could lift surprised him, but she had no control over them at all, and had destroyed more than one piece of furniture by accidentally smashing it against a wall or ceiling.

"I need actual _training _with this," she said, sitting on the floor in despair and staring at the splintered remnants of his wardrobe.

"What you _need _to do is discover how it works," he said, eying the mess with no small amount of annoyance. "Practice with smaller things first. We do not hand new recruits live steel at the beginning of their training. Think of small objects as your practice sword."

"I really hate it when you're right," she grumbled, climbing to her feet.

"When have I ever been wrong?"

She gave him a Look with a capital L. "Do you want a list?"

He was tempted to say yes, but wisely thought better of it. Knowing her, she'd actually make one.

"Thought so," she said with a grin. "All right, do we have everything? It's not like we can stop at 7-11 if we've forgot anything." She couldn't believe how many of those there had been in the States, but they were damn convenient.

"We are _fine_, Lorna. Stop worrying."

"Because _that's_ possible," she griped. "We're leaving our children before they've taken their first proper breath. I've traveled a lot, but this is the first time I've left anything worthwhile behind me. What if we don't come back? Ordinarily I'd say it'd be a given that _you_ would, but we don't know what's out there."

He took her by the shoulders, which were still far too bony. Her eyes were wide with an anxiety totally foreign to her nature. "All will be well, Lorna. Even if our entire host falls, the children will not lack for people to care for them. Until then, they will sleep, safe and unaware. Nothing has ever breached these halls."

"I hope it stays that way. I just…I can't help but worry, you know?"

"It is because you are a mother," he said, kissing the top of her head. "To this day I worry when Legolas strays far, and he is as capable a warrior as any I have ever known. Now you need to come eat something, before the wind blows you away."

"Berk," she said fondly. "Cake. I need cake."

"Of course you do. Come, Dilthen Ettelëa."

She arched an eyebrow. "You can't exactly call me _stranger _anymore," she said. "Not with how familiar we are, if you get my drift."

Thranduil laughed. "You are the first of the ettelëa," he said. "You will always be little stranger to me."

"All right then, Drag Queen Barbie. But sooner or later someone's going to turn up who actually knows what your nickname means, and then you'll get laughed at until the end of time."

* * *

They're going to have all kinds of fun once they're off to war. I pity everyone around them.

As always, reviews make me smile. Title means "Prepare" in Irish.


	50. Ardteistiméireacht

In which you guys are totally going to hate me for this chapter.

* * *

Lorna had decided that marching in a host was both awful and amazing.

Awful, because books and movies never mentioned the sheer amount of shit generated by thousands of horses, or that the number of people meant you had no privacy for bathroom breaks, no matter how many trees were around. She spend so much time looking down to avoid stepping in horse crap that she missed out on most of the scenery, though admittedly she'd seen it before, and it wasn't long before her energy flagged and she had to join Thranduil on the elk. Elves simply marched too damn fast. His little, smug, _I told you so_ smile earned him an elbow to the gut.

"Not a word," she said, sinking her hands into the elk's fur. "I'll get better."

"I do not doubt that you will," he said, wrapping his right arm around her. "You do, however, have a history of pushing yourself far too hard, far too soon."

She wished she could argue that, but she knew she couldn't. Instead she watched the sun rise, driving a little of the chill from the morning air. The Elves never seemed to falter or tire, but it wasn't long before she took a nap. Thranduil, damn him, had kept her up half the night, and while she sure as hell hadn't minded then, she was regretting it now.

It was nearly noon before she woke, and then she desperately needed to pee. Menelwen led her off to the little area the female warriors had set up as a toilet, though quite honestly Lorna would have whizzed in front of God and everybody without batting an eye.

"Is it going to smell this bad all the way to Gondor?" she asked, rinsing her hands.

"I am afraid so," Menelwen said. "You get used to it. It will help when we reach open ground, where the wind will be stronger."

"Sure God do I hope so. People don't really used horses to travel very far from where I'm from, so while I knew they produced a lot'v shit, I didn't realize how _much_."

Menelwen laughed at the face she made. "Just wait until we make camp for the night."

Lorna twitched.

Still, there _was _the amazing, too, which largely came from the sight and sound of so very many people marching toward a common goal. According to Thranduil, there were nine thousand people in this venture, which she had thought was most of Mirkwood's population, until he pointed out that there were many who didn't live in the halls. That he could muster such an army in two days staggered her, until she remembered duh, _Elves_. They were so perfect at some things that it was really irritating, no matter how useful. At least Von Ratched probably wouldn't see it coming.

Riding on the elk was really rather boring as well as terrifying, which was not a combination she would have thought possible. To distract herself, she'd gathered up a load of twigs, and used them to practice her telekinesis.

If she adjusted her vision just right, she could see threads of energy surrounding them – it was a bit like those paintings that were so popular in the 90's, with the hideous patterns that contained an image you could only see if you unfocused your eyes. It took her three hours and a burgeoning headache to master it, but once she had, she discovered at her mind could pull the threads, directing them like a puppet master. Of course she still lost most of the twigs anyway, but at least they went where she wanted them to, until she lost her grip on the threads.

They might only be twigs, but she felt ridiculously pleased with herself nonetheless. She knew how to make her telekinesis work, even if she was total pants at it just now. She had two months to practice before it might actually be needed.

Given how little sleep Elves needed, she was surprised that they actually made camp that night, until she realized that oh yeah, horses. They needed as much rest as she did, which was a good thing, because she didn't want to sleep on the elk any more than she actually had to.

The tent Thranduil had brought was stupidly big, even more so than the one he'd had on the way to Dale, the fabric a rich brocade that was only going to get ruined by the time they reached Gondor. The camp bed was also much bigger than even the two of them would need, whenever he finally had to sleep. Not that she was going to complain – and she certainly didn't mind the huge basin of water she had to wash with. Elves were like cats, in that they never seemed to get dirty, but Lorna could all too easily become a stinky human. Not that anyone was likely to notice, thanks to the overpowering smell of the horses and their bi-products, but still.

She crawled into the camp bed, still in all the undergarments she'd worn. Thranduil would probably be out all night, checking on the troops, so there wasn't much point in waiting up for him. Stupid Elves and their stupidly inhuman endurance. It was with that thought that she fell asleep.

_She dreamt of a garden – _the _Garden, the one with the willow and the Lady, who she was still none too pleased with._

_It was morning here, a beautifully golden sunrise that gilded the willow, sparkling off the creek and turning the dewdrops to diamond. It lit up the Lady's lichen-wispy hair, too, darkness with a gold corona._

_Annoyed with her Lorna might be, but she couldn't bring herself to voice it – not when faced with a being of such immense power. Oh, the Lady seemed benevolent, sitting there on her boulder, but that didn't necessarily mean anything._

_"__I will not harm you, Lorna," she said. "Come here."_

_Lorna stayed put. "You told Thranduil not to tell me I had to get raped to have kids," she said flatly. "Did you just let that happen in the other timeline, too?"_

_"__Yes," the Lady said simply. "It is very, very rare that I can safely meddle in human affairs. I can advise and guide, but I cannot control. A person's actions are their own – I could not have forced Von Ratched's behavior into what I or anyone else would wish. All I could do was take your memory of it, and give it to him instead."_

_That…was an impressively dick move. Lorna approved. "Have I still got to worry about that, now that I already have the kids?"_

_"__I do not think so," the Lady said, rising from the boulder. Being around Elves for so long, Lorna would have thought herself immune to tall people, but nope, not remotely. "In that timeline, he was fixated on you. In this, he is not. While he is dangerous, I think you need not fear him in that way."_

_"__You think? You're not sure?" It took all Lorna's effort of will not to back away._

_"__I do not read hearts, Lorna," the Lady said. "I can promise nothing, but I will ask that you not kill him, should he prove a fool. You will need him later."_

_"__Can I at least break his legs?" she asked hopefully._

_The Lady sighed. "In one way, it seems you are the same, not matter the universe or timeline. Yes, if you feel you must. You have in that timeline._

_"__Wait, _really_?" Lorna asked, startled. "I mean, I sort of halfway had a dream about that, but I wasn't sure how real it was."_

_"__I can give you the memory, if you like. His and yours. It may help you with several things."_

_"__Hell yes," Lorna said, not even pausing to consider. "Gimme."_

Though Von Ratched couldn't read Lorna's mind, he could feel it, the one spark of humanity in this vast wilderness. There was no way she couldn't hear him coming, but she couldn't run, either.

There was barely enough room for him to land the helicopter - indeed, he took out a few branches on the way down. The landing was sloppier than he liked, but he was uncharacteristically impatient. He just wanted this over.

The snow squeaked beneath his boots when he left the cabin, the air so cold it made his lungs burn. How had someone as small as Lorna survived in it this long? The woman didn't have an ounce of spare flesh, and her muscles would have been severely weakened by her long convalescence.

_She's likely survived on her stubbornness_, he thought, stuffing his flashlight in his pocket. The full moon was so bright that he didn't need it, not yet. The smoke from Lorna's fire had risen through the trees not far from his landing site, though she may have abandoned it when she heard him approach.

To Von Ratched's surprise, he was almost…nervous. The tightness in his chest was not only from the cold, his elevated pulse not merely anticipation. To kill her he'd have to face her, and only now did he realize how difficult that would be.

The forest was eerily silent when he left the road, following her uneven tracks into the snow-laden trees. Not a breath of air disturbed them, and there were no night-creatures prowling about. He might as well have been the only person left on Earth.

The light from Lorna's fire was easy to spot - it still burned bright, so if she'd left, she hadn't done it long ago. When he drew near enough, though, he saw that she hadn't: she sat cross-legged before it, sheltered in the great roots of the tree. A wolf sat not far from her, its eyes glowing in the firelight.

Lorna turned her face to him, and Von Ratched paused. He'd expected her to be broken, terrified, desperate to flee him - God knew she had every right to, every _reason_ to. Instead she sat very still, her eyes watching him like cold green stars. He'd come to think her pretty, in her own way, but out here, in this snowy cathedral of trees, she was beautiful. Something about her _belonged_ out here - she fit, in a way she'd never done at the Institute.

Absurdly, for once in his life, he had no idea what to say. His intention to gently stop her heart seemed ridiculous, impossible. She wasn't just lovely - even still and seated, there was an invisible but quite tangible aura of power around her, unlike anything Von Ratched had ever encountered. Whatever else he'd done to her, he certainly hadn't broken her. If anything, she steel she'd always carried within her had been tempered, had wrought her into a force the like of which he'd never seen.

He was suddenly very, very worried. This would not, he thought, be as easy as he'd been expecting.

"I should probably be impressed you found me, but you're such a stubborn bastard I'd not expect anything less," she said. Her voice was hoarse, her accent thicker - she'd had no need to mute it in the last few weeks, he thought, no one who might misunderstand her. "Tell me, Doctor, what is it you expect to accomplish?"

His original answer just wasn't going to work. He'd come to put her out of her misery, but she was definitely not miserable. _Angry_, yes, in a subtle way he'd never seen at the Institute, but there was none of the anguish he'd expected. Killing her now was going to be a lot harder to justify.

And now, facing her, his resolve was wavering anyway. It would be best for him if Lorna died, but her eyes held him still. There were depths in them that made Von Ratched wonder what she'd seen, in the time since she'd escaped - there was something about her that seemed almost inhuman.

"I came to kill you," he said, for once unwilling to lie. His own voice was raspy from disuse, lacking its normal smoothness. Before he could stop himself, he added, "Though now I am unsure if I can."

He expected her to scream, to rage, or even to laugh in his face. Honestly, he was surprised she hadn't tried to attack him yet, hadn't lost her mind along with her temper.

But Lorna did none of those things. Instead she sighed, and stood, tossing aside the blanket she'd had wrapped around her shoulders. The wolf stood as well, but sat back down when she gestured. "I'd very much like to see you try," she said, and the lack of menace in her tone somehow made it worse. There was a dreadful sort of anticipation in it instead, an undercurrent of dark glee, and Von Ratched wondered just what his little broken Lorna had turned into. The firelight gilded the silver in her long braid, made her skin look eerily smooth. Yes, there was something inhuman about her, some alien tranquility beneath her anger. She'd issued him a blatant challenge, and there wasn't a hint of bravado in it.

Once again, he found he didn't know what to say. Never before in his life had he been so truly unnerved - it gave even his natural arrogance pause.

"How did you escape?" he asked, after a long silence.

Lorna's smile was downright unsettling. "The Lady," she said. "You're not the most powerful force in the world, _Doctor_, however much you don't want to admit it."

He felt her gathering power - surprisingly large amount of power, drawing it from some inner well that hadn't existed before. _No_, he thought, _it was always there. She just didn't know it._ "Stop," he said. "You cannot hurt me, Lorna, not truly. And I will not let you live with what I have done to you." The words were hollow, foolish, but there were all he had.

She didn't stop. Instead she laughed, musical and strangely chilling. "Can't I?" she said. "I've grown, _Von Ratched_. And sure God, I'll not be the one who dies here tonight."

Her last words were a snarl, punctuated by the tearing crack of the tree beside him. Snow puffed off the splintering branches, temporarily blinding him, and only his near-superhuman reflexes saved him from impalement when the entire thing exploded.

It did so with a deafening roar, splinters stinging against his face as he took cover behind a fallen log. The sound split the silence like a thunderclap, the whirling dance of powdery snow frosting his hair and coat. Good _God_, just what was he facing?

Von Ratched's telekinesis fended off the rest of the debris, and without thinking he hurled it all at Lorna. His telekinetic shield kept him from inhaling wood pulp, but it actually took him a moment to regain his bearings.

Fortunately, he managed it just in time to avoid being crushed by another tree, hurling it in Lorna's general direction. This was the kind of confrontation he despised, brute strength without finesse, but she was in her element - he was fighting her on her terms, not his.

The thought enraged him, filling him with a level of wrath he'd only known the night he'd raped and nearly killed her. How _dare_ she attack him so? He was warm enough now, in spite of the snow that had crept beneath the collar of his coat, heated by the sheer force of his fury. He knew now what Lorna must feel, when she was in the full grip of her rage: his blood sang in his veins, adrenaline lacing his anger with a weird sort of euphoria. All he wanted to do was kill, and kill he would.

Another tree exploded, and another, torn apart from the inside out. One of them was Lorna's work, but the other was his, a distraction that let Von Ratched circle behind her. He knew how blind her wrath could make her, how single-mindedly she would focus, and he fully intended to use that against her.

Which was why he was completely surprised when she hit him full in the chest with a burning branch. The force of it almost drove the air from his lungs, his nose filling with the stench of burnt cloth, and he could barely focus enough to lash out at her with his telekinesis.

It flung her away, but she rebounded with surprising agility for one so injured. I the hellish light of her scattered fire, she looked like a small avenging Fate, a green-eyed angel of death hell-bent on retribution. It would have chilled him if he hadn't been so enraged. The mingled smoke and steam of melted snow made him cough, but he ignored it. He had to get close enough to grab her - whatever force of magic she'd gained, his physical strength was still far superior to hers. He'd get his hands on her and break her neck, and this nightmare would be over.

That was easier said than done, though. She danced away from him as though her leg wasn't injured at all, her teeth bared in a smile coated with blood from a split lip. She was a demon in human form, her eyes burning bright as the fire - a feral creature, and all the more dangerous for it.

Von Ratched lashed out, catching her in a telekinetic hold. _Enough is enough_, he thought, willing to snap her neck from a distance if he had to.

He never got the chance. Lorna fought his hold - fought it, and broke it. He felt its rending like a physical force, and it sent a bolt of ice down his spine. Only once in his very long life had anything _ever_ torn itself free of his telekinesis, and Lorna certainly shouldn't be able to.

But that shock was nothing to what came next. She lashed out in turn, seizing him, and he actually had to fight to throw it off. Oh, she'd found her potential, his Lorna - she'd tapped a well of strength even he hadn't known she'd possessed.

His shock must have betrayed itself, for she laughed. It was the most chilling sound he'd ever heard, for there was madness in it, a note of something close to insanity. He had to kill her, because the thought of letting her loose on the world was not to be borne.

Without warning he lunged at her, his fingers closing around her too-bony shoulders as he knocked her onto her back. No matter how fierce or strong Lorna ways, he still outweighed her by at least ninety pounds, all of which was muscle. She'd grown outright gaunt in the last weeks, her cheeks hollow, her neck so slender he only needed one hand to start choking the life out of her. He knew he likely had mere moments before her instinctive telekinesis loosed itself on him - he had to crush her trachea now, while he had the chance.

The thought barely had time to flit through his mind before a horrible, throbbing pain exploded through the whole right side of his body. It was so intense and so sudden that his hold on Lorna loosened, and she threw him off her with unnatural strength.

Warm wetness spread along his ribcage, and when Von Ratched's eyes opened, he saw Lorna stagger to her feet, a bloody knife clenched in her right hand. She was coughing horrible, gasping for breath he was surprised she could draw at all.

She went very still, staring at him. The madness in he eyes cleared, and she caught him in a telekinetic hold he was too stunned to fight. He was bleeding badly - he could feel it, _smell_ it, the stench of hot copper mingling with the scent of smoke.

"It's a shame we have to die, my dear," she croaked, sounding like she quoted something, "but no one's getting out've here this time."

She swayed a little on her feet, her grip weakening, and Von Ratched snapped it and lashed it back at her quick as a blink. Lorna staggered again, hissing in pain, her blood loss had left him too dizzy to follow up with a fatal attack. Perhaps she was right - perhaps they would _both_ die here, would end the conflict they'd been locked in since they met.

He struggled to his feet through sheer force of will, his head spinning, but he didn't reach out for her. He couldn't, and not just because of his wounds. All he could do was stare at Lorna, for her bloody, soot-streaked face was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen, so lovely it arrested him where he stood. His rage and bloodlust drained as he watched her watching him, leaving only exhaustion and pain. Her hair had come loose from its braid, a wild mass of black and a silver stained red-gold, that in his blurred vision glowed like a corona. She was beautiful and terrible and so very, very alive, and all his will to kill her wasn't enough to make him try.

How had he ever thought he'd loved her, before? What he'd thought to be love paled at what he felt now, now that he saw in her an avenging angel, a creature so far above him as to be untouchable. He knew the blood loss was affecting him, but that was not the cause of his strange new perception of her.

Lorna too stood frozen, looking startlingly conflicted. Logically Von Ratched should use that hesitation, should turn it against her, but he couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to even move.

That refusal cost him. White-hot agony exploded through his leg, and he heard the crack as her telekinesis snapped his left shin. He fell before he could help it, clenching his teeth against a cry.

His vision went momentarily grey, and when his eyes focused again, he saw Lorna beside him, looking down at him with an expression he couldn't read.

"I'm not meant to kill you," she said, her abused voice barely above a whisper. "Your death doesn't lie in my hands, so I'm told. Whatever fate lies ahead've you, it's not mine to decide."

She turned away before Von Ratched could speak, and her retreating form was the last thing he saw before his vision tunneled into darkness.

Lorna's pain had been forced into a tiny container at the back of her mind. Her throat hurt like a bastard, but even that pain was muted. It could cripple her later, when she wasn't trying not to die.

She didn't know why Von Ratched paused, but damn if she wasn't going to use it. He was such a stubborn bastard that his knife wound alone shouldn't have slowed him down, yet he paused, and stared at her like he'd never seen her before. She really didn't want to speculate what might be going on in that fractured head of his.

_Kill him_, she ordered herself. _He's practically offering his head on a silver platter_. Do _it._

It was only common sense, but Lorna couldn't move. Doubt nagged at her, cold as the snow beneath her feet. It warned her away, and at first she didn't know why. Not until the Lady's words echoed in her head.

_What you do will determine what you are to become_. What the hell did that mean? If she killed Von Ratched now, with this power of hers, would she become a monster like him?

_Yes. _

The thought felt alien. It sounded like the Lady, not her, and it was _not_ what she wanted to hear. How could she let him live? How could she risk loosing him on the world again? He'd done so much damage already, and now she was supposed to leave him with the chance to do _more_? She might risk becoming a monster, but Von Ratched unquestionable was one.

He'd stayed still, while doubt and fury warred in her mind. The firelight made his eyes glow in a way that was downright demonic, his face was a filthy mask of soot and sweat and blood - he looked so far from anything like his normal self that he seemed a different person. For the first time since Lorna had met him, there was no trace of anything predatory in his expression. He looked almost…stricken, and she realized that the cruelest thing she could do was let him live. She'd broken him as he hadn't managed to break her, whether he knew it yet or not.

No, she couldn't kill him, but that didn't mean she couldn't slow him down - nor could she deny nature the chance to finish him off for her. If he was truly meant to live, if he truly _wanted_ to, he'd fight his way free no matter what. She wouldn't leave him the ability to follow her, but she'd leave him a slight chance of survival.

She lashed out with her telekinesis and snapped his shin, and couldn't suppress a vicious little smile when he went down. Lorna had to give him grudging credit for not screaming; even she couldn't have stayed silent through that, but Von Ratched hardly made a sound.

She spoke to him, but she was hardly aware of what she said. Honestly, she wasn't sure he'd even heard her, given how fast he blacked out.

For a long while she stood and watched him, while the pounding of her heart slowed and her sweat began to chill. Her throat burned, and without the rush of adrenaline the ache in her leg and shoulder crept back. Her left arm hurt like a motherfucker, too, and when she went to move it, fiery pain shot from her wrist to her shoulder. Christ, had the bastard broken it?

_That's all I need_, she thought dimly. Her thoughts had grown very fuzzy, distant, as though her mind was wandering away from her abused body. Lorna couldn't blame it - she wondered, just as dimly, if she was going into shock.

When she stepped forward, agony wracked her from her neck to her toes, and she couldn't help but cry out. Yes, the fucker had broken her arm, and the fire in her right side told her he'd probably cracked a few of her ribs, too.

With a cry that was as much anger as pain, she snapped Von Ratched's other leg. She had no choice but to move forward like this - let him have to drag himself back to his goddamn helicopter.

If she'd known what she was doing, Lorna would have taken the thing herself, but she had next to no clue how to pilot _anything_, helicopter or otherwise. She did think about raiding it for supplies, but the thought of using anything of his left her vaguely nauseated.

She swayed on her feet, her vision fuzzing. Whatever she did, she couldn't stay here, but the loss of her adrenaline high left her exhausted as well as hurting. The thought of walking was more than she could bear.

A faint whine snapped her out of her trance. Her wolf had crept back to her, picking its way through the debris, and Lorna blinked. Until now, she hadn't properly registered the extent of the devastation she and Von Ratched had caused - between them, they'd felled trees for maybe a quarter of a mile around them, an uneven circle of death. Some of the dryer bits had been set alight by her scattered fire, though the snow kept it from spreading. It looked like the impact of a missile strike.

"Jesus," she muttered, and winced at the pain in her throat.

Her wolf nuzzled her hand again, and Lorna leaned against it. No, walking was out of the question, but she'd ridden wolves before. If she was lucky, she'd pass out before her shock wore off, and forced her to actually think about what had just happened.

She collapsed onto the wolf's back, hissing as pain telegraphed through what felt like every nerve in her body. True consciousness didn't last long, but she wasn't fortunate enough to pass out entirely, either. Her world faded to murky grey, her mind shutting down to the point where even her physical agony dulled. It was something akin to a trance, and she sank into it full willing.

_That…well._

_Well._

_She'd had a vague bit of that memory, but it hadn't had anything like that clarity of detail. To know – to _feel _that she could do that…what would she have become, in that universe? What would it have been like, to master her abilities in a world that didn't have hundreds of people who could squash her flat? She must have felt like God. Maybe that was Von Ratched's problem – he'd been unopposed his entire life, probably. If there was any justice in the world, he'd be hating it now._

_"__Will I – d'you think I'll ever get to that level in Middle-Earth?" she asked._

_"__In time, yes," the Lady said. "You are not the same Lorna you would have been, but your gifts are identical. What I am less certain of is your mental fortitude. You would have suffered much, and come out of it stronger. Here you have known pain and fear, but you have not truly been tested. I do not know what will happen to you in Middle-Earth, but you may need the rage you have subsumed so completely. If you wish to keep your happiness, you must be willing to kill for it."_

She woke before she could say anything, or ask any questions. Camp was quiet, but the tent was not dark – Thranduil sat on the cot beside her, reading by candlelight.

"Well, that was fucked up," she said groggily, rolling to face him. "Apparently I have the capacity to be very scary, but only when I'm pissed off. I might have a harder time with my telekinesis because I'm too happy, and most'v that's your fault, you dick."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Are you honestly going to berate me for making you happy?"

"That surprised you?" she asked, struggling to sit up.

"Well, it's novel even for you. I would not worry about it too much – you will likely be angry enough when we reach Gondor. I somehow doubt you and Von Ratched would get along well."

Lorna snorted, but for a moment said nothing. "Thranduil, I know you want to go with me , when we go after Thorvald – I know you want to protect me, but you can't. I don't think I'll ever properly learn if you do. Where I was, what I saw, I had no one to rely on but me. How am I to learn what I'm really capable of, if I've always got you to lean on?"

"I cannot allow you to march into danger alone," he said, with a firmness he surely thought would brook no argument.

"Thranduil, it's not up to you to _allow _me to do anything," she said. "We might be married, but we're still each our own person. You've no more say over my actions than I do over yours."

"I think you forget that I am also your king," he said.

It was entirely the wrong thing to say, and by his expression, he immediately knew it. Lorna, however, didn't care.

"Yeah, _nope_," she snarled, scrambling off the cot and hunting up her day clothes. She had no idea what time it was, but it didn't matter – if she didn't get out of this tent right now, she'd fetch him a slap that would jar his brain loose.

He tried to speak, but she was so angry that she didn't even register his actual words, rage prickling hot over her skin. She'd got her trousers on in less than fifteen seconds, and was still struggling into her tunic when she stormed out of the tent.

The sky in the east was pale – dawn was not far off. A few of the horses were stirring, and several cook-fires were being lit. She stuff her feet in her boots as she walked, hoping the chill morning air would cool her temper, but no such luck.

The reek of the horses was so strong that she stomped down to the river to get away from it. Even its calming babble had no effect – but then, she knew only time would soothe her anger.

_I am your king. _First off, no, he wasn't, but even if he had been, she was his wife – that didn't give him any right at all to order her around. She was a grown-ass woman; _nobody_ had the right to tell her what she was and wasn't allowed to do. She'd had enough of that in prison, thank you very much.

Having someone else's protection would be a crutch – of that she was entirely certain. She didn't think it was just being happy that was holding her back, either; though she'd been afraid for most of her pregnancy, she'd nevertheless felt safe where she was, and who she was with. Even initial fear of Thranduil, all those months ago, hadn't been enough, because she'd had people with her. Because of it, she'd gone soft, let her guard down to a degree that would be a liability to her later.

Lorna knew what she needed to do. Even angry as she was, she didn't _like _it, but she knew. And she'd best be off while she had the chance.

It would take Thranduil a while to notice she was gone, because he would expect her to want to walk with someone else as long as she was still angry with him. She'd double back and take the forest road, and let her rage and the spiders hone her telekinesis. She'd meet up with them sooner or later on the other side, and hope like hell he'd forgive her. And that she would have forgiven him.

* * *

Told you you were going to hate me. Lorna really is right, though; the only way she's going to reach her full potential is if it's all she has to fall back on, and there's just no damn way Thranduil would let her face danger on her own.

As always, reviews feed me, whether you like or hate this new development. Title means "leaving" in Irish.


	51. Foghlaim

In which Thranduil is displeased, Sharley has some advice he really does not want to hear, and Lorna has the time of her life.

* * *

Thranduil was internally kicking himself. No matter his intentions, that was one of the worst things he could have said to Lorna. He had no idea how long she'd be angry with him, but he knew it wouldn't be over in a day.

He knew from her memories that she'd spent much of her life with either people trying to control her (her very brief stint with foster parents, prison), coddle her (her initial experience with her gang, later dropped) or drown her with 'helpful' advice and treat her like a child (her well-meaning but misguided sister). Part of why she'd loved Liam was because he _hadn't _done that. Thranduil _knew _this, yet he had said that anyway.

She'd forgive him eventually, because, though her temper could be downright vicious, she was not the sort to hold a grudge; it burned like wildfire, hot but brief.

He, however, was in no good mood himself, and snapped at the soldiers who packed up camp. They scurried out of his way, uneasy, unused anymore to the way he had once been.

This was not going to be a pleasant journey.

* * *

Lorna had thought it would be difficult, sneaking away from the hyper-vigilant Elves, but it was shockingly easy. She ducked behind some bushes, as if to take a piss, and just snuck back toward the halls from there.

Her pack was heavier than she liked, because she'd taken extra canteens, which would make it even heavier when they were filled. Even without Thranduil's memory, she knew that the only stream within the forest itself was enchanted, and not to be drunk from.

She was somewhat ashamed to feel a strange freedom. She loved Thranduil dearly, and was very fond of all her friends, but never since her first day in Middle-Earth had she truly been left to her own devices. Granted, that had almost got her eaten, but she was wiser now, uninjured, and could harness a power that she had not known she possessed the. Yes, she was physically weaker than she liked, but that would start changing before she reached the end of the road.

Dodging the water-gate would be easy, but she couldn't be sure she wouldn't run into any patrols. If she did, she'd just tell them the truth, lightly edited: she needed to practice her telekinesis, and she'd meet the rest of the group on the other side. She just had to make sure the guards didn't follow, and take care of every damn threat for her.

She hadn't been in Mirkwood proper since her first day, and it was every bit as wild and creepy as she remembered, the tree canopy almost as solid as a roof. It was dim and gloomy, and she knew that wouldn't change much even once the sun properly rose. It smelled strongly of moss and leaf mould, with a faint, unpleasant bitterness beneath it. Struggling along without a path wasn't at all fun, but hey, it was exercise. And at least in this universe, she wasn't trying to deal with having been shot twice.

She wasn't fully aware of the circumstances behind _that, _but she assumed it was Von Ratched's fault, as most things probably were. The distinctly tame-looking wolf suggested she'd had help along the way, to make up for the fact that she'd been walking with a stick. Otherwise she probably would have starved, since unlike now, she'd had no supplies beyond a lighter and a knife. At least this go-round she had food and water.

By the time she actually reached the forest road, it was well past noon, and she wasn't much more than an ambulatory, aching ball of sweat. Evidently she was in even worse shape than she'd thought, if such a relatively short walk should tire her so – but then, she'd also been breaking her own trail. She wished she could use her telekinesis to fly, but she somehow doubted it worked like that. Even if she did figure it out, she'd probably crash headlong into a tree and break her neck.

She'd gone far enough that she thought she could afford to take a break, so she sat on the path and ate some bread and dried apple, taking sips from her canteen. Her legs and back hated her, and would hate her still more tomorrow morning, but they could deal with it.

Would Thranduil forgive her for running off like this? He was the sort who could nurse a grudge, and given how long Elves lived, that could well be for the rest of her life. The thought pained her, but she knew this was what she had to do. He meant well in wanting to protect her, but he really was ultimately handicapping her.

There had to be a reason that only she and Von Ratched had gone into the darkness after Thorvald. It was entirely possible that Thranduil wouldn't be _able _to follow her, and in that case, she definitely needed to be able to stand on her own two feet, because no way in hell was she going to rely on Von Ratched.

Sometimes, Lorna mused, life sucked, but the hand you were dealt was the hand you were dealt, and you had to go along with it until you found a way to punch the dealer.

* * *

Thranduil might be cursing himself, but he also cursed Lorna for being so easily offended by his ill-considered remark.

The woman she'd been back on Earth would have punched him for it – that she would storm off instead likely showed some measure of personal growth. Even the inevitable sulking and scowling was better than the tantrums he'd seen in her memory. There was nothing to do but let her be, to work it out on her own time.

Knowing that did nothing to improve his mood, however, and he remained snappish as they set off. Half the army would know he and Lorna had fought by evening, whether she said anything or not, which did nothing for his temper either.

He rode on in murderous silence, and those nearest him remained subdued, not joining with the talking and singing of all further from him. There was a certain black satisfaction to be found in that – his people had respect enough to fear him, while he wondered if Lorna had any _respect _at all. She was very fond of him – it was possible she loved him, though neither had yet said it aloud – but respect? Now he was not so sure.

But then, he'd just demonstrated a total lack of confidence in her ability to defend herself. It was true, too – he really _didn't _think her capable of taking on a direct threat alone, because, well…she wasn't. She'd given birth not much more than a week ago, for Eru's sake, after months of fear and discomfort. One did not recover from that immediately – not even one as stubborn as Lorna. Surely she would see the wisdom in that, once her ire cooled.

The elk shifted uneasily, as did the horses of those around him. It could not be spiders, not this far out – oh.

Two figures approached in the distance, trekking downhill through the tall grass: one arrayed in white, and the other with a head of unmistakable blue hair.

Wonderful. Because this was just what he needed.

* * *

Lorna didn't take any more time to eat her lunch than she absolutely had to, though her aching legs wished she would. She had ground to cover, dammit – the more distance she put between herself and the halls, the less likely she was to be found.

How weird it was, thinking of evading the people who had become her own, even if she wasn't actually one of the. It made her feel a bit shitty, but she was determined, dammit.

Even on the path, she could feel the forest's enchantments pressing on her, urging her to sleep. Strange lights danced across her vision, will o' the wisps of pale green fire trying to lure her from the path, but Lorna had dropped _way _too much acid in her teenage years to be bothered by foxfire.

The trees were whispering, too, though she couldn't make out what they said. Since it wasn't the cracking of spiders destroying branches, she didn't pay it much mind. The air was a little too heavy and humid, but again, she'd grown up in a port city. Humidity was nothing new. Leaves crunched under her feet, trying to obscure the path, and as an exercise, she sent them scattering with her telekinesis.

Oh, the forest didn't like that. Not at all. She could feel its disapproval bearing down on her like a solid weight, and she wondered why. Moving a few leaves was nothing.

A massive dead branch, almost large enough to be a tree itself, lay to the left of the path. It was so dry that it had to have fallen ages ago, mottled with patches of mildew and slimy black moss.

It was easier to focus on the lines around it; as it was inanimate, they mostly stayed stable, and she grabbed all of them with her mind. Actually using her hands might make it easier, but she didn't want to grow reliant on gestures, no matter how cool they would look. Better to be able to ambush people with it.

Lifting the branch didn't take much effort, but it was _way _harder to guide than the twigs had been. She wanted to drag it along overhead like a balloon, but all she succeeded in doing was bashing it into the trees on either side, making enough noise to attract ever spider in Mirkwood.

And yet, frustrating though it was, she could feel the power of her curse singing in her veins. Raw strength she had in plenty; it was finesse she needed now, and unfortunately, she wasn't very good at finesse with, well, anything, and never had been. Her ability to fight had always relied on brute force and an indifference to injury – a ninja she definitely was not. Delicacy simply wasn't in her nature, but she had to learn, if she was ever to master this.

If the forest had disliked her moving leaves, it _really _hated this. The howling press of it bore down on her mind, but all she did was laugh. Seriously, fuck these crazy trees.

It must have realized that tactic wasn't working, because it threw a phantom Thranduil in her path, facing her with a glower.

It was so obviously a hallucination that she rolled her eyes, though it really was a rather convincing one. Full solid, it mimicked his expression to a rather startling degree, but it was the expression she'd worn when she first came here – one she had seldom seen in months, and never directed at her. The telltale thing, though, was that the mind behind those eerie pale eyes was most definitely not his.

"Nice try," she said, trying to saunter past; her aching legs didn't want to do anything but stagger. The branch continued to crash drunkenly through the boughs above her, dislodging a snowfall of last year's leaves.

Hallucination-Thranduil kept pace with her, silent. She doubted he ever _would _speak; in her experience, visual hallucinations usually didn't. Maybe she could fuck with the forest a bit, and see what it might really be willing to throw at her.

She grabbed the hallucination's hand, which felt unnervingly real, if also very cold. Branch still suspended overhead, she led the thing in a dance.

"I know you," she sang, and the branch smashed into the tree to her right, "I've walked with you once upon a dream." _Crash. _"I know you," _crunch _"the gleam in your eyes is so," _ crack _"familiar a gleam."

The hallucination was a surprisingly good dancer, though its expression was now so bewildered it was all she could do not to laugh. "And I know it's true," _smash crackle _"that visions are seldom all they seem," _crunch crackle pop. _"But if I know you, I know what I'll do," _crash_ "you'll love me at once, the way you did once, upon a dream." _SMASH_

The branch splintered to bits when she hit it too hard against a particularly solid beech, raining down bits of bark and rotten wood pulp. Lorna burst out laughing at the expression on the Thranduil-thing's face, which was now one of total disbelief.

At least, she laughed until the face changed, the eyes sinking into twin empty pits, mouth opening to reveal what looked like shark teeth.

"_Ew_," she said, shying away when the thing reached for her. "You're not fun anymore. Fuck off." She threw the remnants of the branch at it, her telekinesis so forceful that it actually knocked the thing off the trail.

Mirkwood obviously had its own mind, a consciousness fed by all its disparate parts. Whatever darkness lingered here was a shadow cast by the evil that had been driven from Dol Guldur; she didn't need to worry about running into _it_. She'd attack this forest-mind, as well as its body, just to see what would happen.

The Thranduil-thing was still watching her, but it hadn't grabbed her, which led her to believe that it couldn't as long as she stayed on the path. It watched her warily, confusion written on its face, and she wondered if it mirrored the sentiments of Mirkwood itself. Probably.

Lorna called up all that she'd felt in the memory that was not hers. Though she was in no immediate peril, it was easy to summon rage at the forest – or rather, what the forest had become. Thranduil had showed her what it had been like as Greenwood, and it was no great leap to fury against the darkness that had overcome it. With that came a feeling of power so intense that she was almost delirious, sparking through her nerves, sending her heart pounding and blood rushing through her veins like a turbulent river.

The lines of the trees were easy to grab, thick and heavy with age, winding around her mental fingers. She snatched them from every tree she could see in the gloom, drawing strength from them, riding a high as steep as any drug she'd ever taken – and she _pulled_.

To her immense surprise, the trees didn't break – they shattered, splinters whirling through the air like snow, stinging where they met her face. The forest's mind grabbed at hers and _squeezed_, but it couldn't get through her high, the euphoria that utterly possessed her.

Sunlight poured through the sudden hole in the canopy, rendering the path gold around her. Saplings could grow now, untouched by darkness, or so she devoutly hoped.

She grabbed at the threads of those still standing, but that was harder, since they were further away. Sweat beaded her forehead when she pulled, and they simply broke, rather than splintering apart, the tearing crack echoing through the unnatural silence. This was probably going to draw every nasty thing the damn forest had to throw at her, but it was worth it. She'd bet many of them wouldn't be able to stand sunlight.

Onward she went, concentrating on the closer trees that were easier to break, humming to herself all the while. The Thranduil-thing glared at her, but such was her ecstatic glee that she didn't care. Let him scowl – let the monsters come. Lorna vowed that by the time she was finished, there would be nothing left in this forest that was scarier than she was.

* * *

It wasn't often that Sharley was truly amused, but she was now. Even at this distance she could feel Lorna happily tearing Mirkwood apart, and how incredibly confused it was. Hopefully she wouldn't kill herself doing it, because she didn't seem to have any idea how much energy she was expending.

Sharley and Galadriel stayed well back from the group, not wanting to spook the animals any more than necessary. Thranduil walked out to meet them, looking like the entire universe had personally offended him. There had probably been a fight over Lorna going to Mirkwood on her own.

"Angmar's been taken care of," Sharley said. "Nothing's getting through that door again. I'm gonna stick around and wait for Gandalf and Bilbo." She didn't think she was imagining the subtle relief in his eyes. "I'll see what I can do about your spider problem in the meantime. Though I don't know how much Lorna'll leave me to do."

His eyes narrowed – yep, there was trouble there. "What do you mean?"

"She's ripping Mirkwood a new asshole. That'll probably include squishing the spiders."

Rage momentarily twisted his pretty face. "She. Is. _What?_"

"…You didn't know, did you?" This was what she got for not reading people's Time before she spoke. Doing so might be rude, but at least it would spare scenes like _this_.

The intensity of the fury in Thranduil's eyes actually disturbed her a little, partly because it was also vying with worry. "Before you get all freaked out and pissed off, she's doing fine. Being human doesn't make her weak – not with the strength of her curse. She's coming out through the Elven road, and she'll meet up with you on this side."

Still Thranduil said nothing, and she wondered if his brain had gone into vapor-lock. She didn't need to be able to read his mind to know what he was thinking: it was probably a lot of 'how dare she's', 'foolish', 'mortal', etc. It was all she could do not to smack him – she'd been mortal, once, and been constantly reminded of how supposedly fragile and breakable humans were. It had gotten old _really _fast, so she could understand why Lorna got sick of it and temporarily bailed.

"Someone must go get her," he said at last.

Sharley sighed. "_No_, Thranduil. Do you really think Lorna's that incompetent? Careful how you answer, 'cause I'm telling her what you say."

His glare turned absolutely murderous, but it had no effect on her – there was, after all, nothing he could actually do to her. "I'll go myself, then," he said, but she stood firm in is path.

"Lorna will never forgive you if you do," she said.

"_I _may never forgive _her_ for running off like that," he snapped.

"Running off – are you even listening to yourself? She's not a child, Thranduil – you don't get to control where she goes and what she does. I'm guessing the only reason she didn't tell you she was going was because she knew you'd throw a bitch-fit."

Something flickered in his eyes, subtle and brief, and she'd bet anything they'd had exactly that argument. "Fine," ground out, "but if she dies in there -"

"She won't," Sharley said.

"How can you know?" he asked witheringly.

She raised her eyebrows. "_Duh_," she said. "If I'd seen any potentiality where she died, I'd have gone to her, not you. Quit being a goddamn control freak."

"Do you know what it is, to worry over your spouse who has gone into danger? Do you know what it is to have to _let _them go?" he demanded.

"Yeah," she said flatly, "I do. I have a _kid_, Thranduil. Kid equals father. _Her _father got drafted to Vietnam and walked right into a bullet his third day there. I couldn't keep him from going, no matter how damn much I wanted to, and you can't wrap Lorna up in cotton balls and keep her glued to your side forever."

She'd startled him, she saw, in his understated, almost impossible to read way. She wasn't going to remind him that someday she'd have to take Lorna away from him. It was probably best he forget that for now.

"I will speak no more on this," he said, stalking off.

_"__I think that translates into 'you win," _Jimmy said.

"I sure as hell hope so," she muttered.

* * *

There was sunlight. Lots of it.

For the past mile, Lorna had meandered and ripped Mirkwood apart. The Elven road was now a wide golden stripe, and made a world of difference even in the areas the trees still stood; the gloom was less solid, and the air no longer felt stifling. Breeze swooped down through the corridor she'd blasted, stirring leaves that had probably never felt it before.

Her energy was flagging, but the lingering euphoria made up for it. She'd crash hard tonight, and hope the Elven magic that protected the road would keep her from getting eaten.

Weirdly, she'd still seen no spiders – but then, perhaps it wasn't _that _weird, considering Sharley's many trips into the forest. She and that creepy sword might well have taken care of half the nasties in Mirkwood already.

Not until the sun was sinking through the western trees did Lorna stop, and then she had to force herself not to eat everything in her pack. She sipped water, nibbling slowly, and only now realized how very much her muscles ached. How far had she walked today? She honestly had no idea. Mirkwood took several days to traverse on foot; she'd probably reach the end of the path long before the army found it, and then have to either wait and kick her heels, or go find it. A least a group that big would be pretty hard to miss.

Just how pissed was Thranduil going to be? Probably quite a bit, but right now, with the sheer force of her curse coursing through her veins, she really didn't care. He could be as pissy as he liked – she was learning in here, ways an things she could never have learned but on her own. And considering she had a feeling they'd probably save her life later, she wasn't sorry, either. He was smart enough that he'd see the wisdom in it, once he'd got over being furious.

* * *

Oh Lorna, he only worries because he cares, but you were still right to hare off on your own.

Title means "Learning" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me hope.


	52. Neart

In which Thranduil is thoughtful, Lorna is still having the time of her life, Saruman is wondering what in flying fuck is going on, and Geezer puts his foot down about the weapons.

* * *

Thranduil spent the next fortnight with a mood that grew ever fouler, but each time he resolved to ride ahead and hunt Lorna down, Sharley and her disturbing eyes kept him in place. From all Galadriel had told him, she had the ability to make his life very unhappy if she chose, and she seemed to think this detour of Lorna's important. Crossing her on it would not be wise, which only made his temper even worse.

It didn't help that she unsettled him more than ever. Galadriel had told him what she'd done to Angmar – they had the next best thing to a Vala walking among them, and that made him very, very nervous. The last time the Valar involved themselves in Middle-Earth's affairs, the War of Wrath happened, and the land itself was ripped apart. He would prefer that not be repeated. Mercifully, it seemed she was reluctant to interfere, unless she felt she had no choice.

Still, she unnerved him, and he missed Lorna with an intensity that surprise him. He was furious with her, and worried for her, but the loss he felt without her beside him was an ominous taste of what he would endure when she died. Oh, he believed Sharley when she said she could extend Lorna's life, but it wouldn't be forever.

The fact that Lorna would one day die was probably, as Legolas said, the only reason the Valar had not struck him down; no Elf could have two living spouses, so second marriages were rare, unless one spouse was determined to dwell in Mandos' Halls until the end of time. He didn't know if Anameleth had lingered, or been reborn in Valinor. As she had never been the sort to sit still or long, he assumed it was the latter.

He loved them both, if in very different ways, but if it came down to it, he doubted either would be willing to share. It was just as well that Lorna was not immortal, or their time together would end in bitterness. Anameleth would not grudge him a second marriage in Middle-Earth, so long as it _stayed_ in Middle-Earth.

He was loath to admit it, because he was very _ashamed_ of it, but he loved Lorna more than he had Anameleth. Perhaps it was because he'd taken on some of Lorna's traits since his first wife's passing; she felt things with all the intensity of an Edain, whose emotions burned fierce and hot, concentrated by their short lives. She had loved very little in her life, but when she did, she did it wholeheartedly.

Did she love him? She had never said anything of it, but then, neither had he. In that, they were very alike; neither were good at expressing important things in words. He knew that she was very fond of him – even when he exasperated her, which was often, there was a weight of affection behind her insults. Perhaps she feared to be the one to speak first, but so did he. What a strange, almost fractured pair they made.

He would tell her, when he saw her, once he was done shouting at her for disappearing on him without a word. Her absence had taught him how terrible her loss would be, and he did not wish to lose her before she could hear him speak the words aloud.

* * *

Lorna was exhausted, but triumphant in a way she'd never before known. She'd ripped Mirkwood a new asshole – a large, gaping, _sunny_ asshole – and she couldn't wait to show Thranduil. Even he'd have to be impressed by it, which would hopefully mitigate how pissed he'd be at her.

She'd reached the end of the road, and now limped her way along just outside the forest's edge, cursing her out-of-shape legs but merrily ripping trees out of the ground as she went. The more she used this facet of her curse, the stronger it became; unlike her body, it didn't get tired and sore, and the euphoria of it remained, buoying her even as her physical energy flagged.

She felt the army coming long before she saw them – it was impossible to miss so many minds. She'd give them a show and a half, as soon as they'd actually be able to see it. The sky was clear, the sun fierce and warm, and she felt a little like a child who'd brought the most epic thing to show and tell at school. (She'd been banned from doing that when she actually _was_ a child, because she'd brought a mummified rat she'd found under the house. Hey, she thought it was cute.)

The elk appeared in the distance, and she wanted to run to it, but trying to do so would probably make her legs mutiny and give out entirely. So she ambled along, tearing up forest as she went.

Even from a distance, Thranduil realized (grudgingly) that Lorna had probably been right to go off on her own. Just _what_ was she doing to his forest, aside from ripping it apart? Trees that had stood for centuries floated skyward with a great tearing crack of snapped roots, hovering in a neat row, soil falling off them like rain.

He spurred the elk forward, for the moment too shocked to be angry, wondering just what had happened to her, to give her such mastery of her power.

When he drew near enough, she grinned at him, wholehearted without even a hint of reserve. Her hair was a mess, her face streaked with dirt, her eyes like green stars, and in that moment he thought her the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Others might not think her so, but they didn't know her like he did.

"Hey Ma, look what I can do!" she called, dropping the trees one by one behind her. The impact shook the ground, spooking the elk until he soothed it.

He hopped down and strode toward her, uncertain whether he wanted to berate or kiss her.

She took the choice out of his hands – she half ran, half limped up to him, wrapped her arms around his neck, jumped so she could wrap her legs around his waist, and kissed him before Eru and everybody. "I can blow things up with my brain," she said, leaning back enough to smile up at him.

Thranduil wrapped his arms around her in turn, so that she was not trying to wholly support her own weight. He should be angry with her, but he couldn't – not with that grin, and the utter glee in her eyes. "Sharley says you have ripped my forest a new asshole," he said.

Lorna burst out laughing, burying her face in the crook of his neck. "That's one way'v putting it," she said, leaning back to look up at him again. "The word 'asshole' sounds totally wrong with your voice. Say it again."

He didn't roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. "You," he said, "are impossible, and sooner or later I am going to remember that I am very angry with you."

"No you won't," she said, with total self-assurance. "I have a mouth and you have very sensitive ears."

"Impossible," he repeated, shaking his head. "Now get down, before I'm not willing to let you."

"Kinky," she said, but released him, landing on the grass with a very Edain _thud_. "When all this is over, and we've come home again, I'll show you what I did. I doubt the forest's seen so much sun in ages."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Why am I not surprised that you exercised your power by creating wholesale destruction?"

"Because you know me too well. And I never thought I'd say this, but I actually want to ride the elk. I don't think I've ever been so sore in my life."

"I am quite certain you did not mean that to sound as perverted as it does."

"It only sounds perverted because you're a perv. C'mon, let's get going while there's still daylight."

* * *

Geezer really wished he was a better artist. He'd tried to sketch a basic assault rifle, but the result was so crude as to be nearly incomprehensible.

Still, the Dwarves seemed to get the gist of it. Once Arandur translated, they started gabbing at each other, knocking up blueprints a hell of a lot better than his own. Surprisingly – or maybe not, since they were Dwarves – they were pretty damn accurate.

Bullets were harder to explain, since Middle-Earth had nothing comparable, and if actual gunpowder existed, they'd never heard of it. They had a thing called 'flashflame', which was close, but no way would he be holding it in anything near his face. He'd seen what happened when a bullet misfired, and it wasn't pretty.

"What exactly do these _do_?" Dain asked, through Arandur.

Geezer pondered how to answer that. Though they'd left the forge, it was still damn hot, and he was sweating like a pig, which made it a bit harder to concentrate. "Think of an arrow without the shaft," he said, "fired with more force than any human could. Pal of mine was a sniper, and he landed a shot from a mile away once."

Arandur's eyes widened – as did Dain's, once it was translated, and that worried Geezer.

"When all this is over," he said, "I want these destroyed. Your world isn't ready for 'em."

Dain made a sound of outrage when Arandur translated, but Geezer held up a hand.

"Guns make killing people easy," he said, "and that shouldn't ever be easy. I've seen what going to war with these kinds of weapons can do to a person, and it ain't good."

He paused. "There was a guy in my unit, a guy who'd been in 'Nam almost four years. We were going through a village, just checking on things, see, and he snapped. Got it into his head that they were the enemy, and because he had one of these, he killed half the village before our sergeant took him out. Say something like that happened to someone with your weapons – not half so many people would die.

Arandur pale, but translated, and when he had, Dain sobered.

"In some ways, your world's better'n mine," Geezer said. "I'd like to keep it that way. I could tell you horror stories about war on Earth, but I'd rather not have to. And I'd sure as hell rather you not see them yourself." If he brought the worst of Earth to Middle-Earth, he'd never forgive himself.

Dain said something, and Arandur translated, "He says he has seen war."

Geezer snorted. "You don't know what _war_ is," he said. "You haven't seen whole forests lit on fire thanks to one bomb. You've never seen the guy next to you take a mortar round and end up nothing but severed arms and legs, or had your squadron pinned down by dozens of men with guns like this, and your best friend's been shredded by bullets until his insides are his outsides, and you're wearing half of 'em. One of my sergeants got hit with napalm and burned alive right in front of me, and there wasn't anything we could do but half beat him to death with our jackets to smother it, because napalm don't go out. Don't you fuckin'_ dare_ talk to _me_ about war." His hands, still scarred even after the Elf-medicine, clenched almost without his being aware of it.

Arandur translated all that as best he could, but rather than rouse Dain's temper, it stirred sympathy in his eyes. There was no way Geezer could ever hope to articulate the horror of Vietnam, but Dain looked like he got the point. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly kind.

"He says he will defer to your judgment with these weapons," Arandur said, "though he still considers it a waste of craftsmanship."

"Can't fault him there," Geezer said. "Just so long's he understands."

"I think we both do," Arandur said, and looked vaguely ill.

Good. Maybe they'd start really taking this seriously.

* * *

A thousand miles away, Saruman was troubled.

He had felt the massive expenditure of power further north, but even with his Palantír, he could not see how, nor why.

It was true that the Palantíri could be fickle – thank you for that, Fëanor – they were rarely this unreliable. It was as though something was deliberately blinding it, hiding from him in a way few things had ever managed.

There was unrest in Mirkwood, too, but all he could see of _that_ was some admittedly impressive destruction. Something or someone had torn up the trees all the length of the Elven road.

He needed to know what in Eru's name was going on, and if the Palantír would not show him, his crebain would have to suffice. They would tell him what was afoot in Middle-Earth, and then, perhaps, he would actually know what to do about it.

* * *

The army reached the mouth of the road through Mirkwood by evening, and it was there that Sharley left them.

"Are you not going to…freeze…Lorna?" Thranduil asked, not knowing what other word to use.

"I already did," she said, with one of her fleeting smiles. "You have to understand that this protection against injury or illness. Though it does mean you can screw like rabbits and not worry about knocking her up," she added, with a real smile.

"I see it is not only Lorna who believes vulgarity is amusing," he said dourly. He chose not to mention how pleased he was by the news; they had only one week left to their enforced celibacy, though the trek through Mirkwood had left her so sore an exhausted that it might be longer after all.

"You're laughing like hell on the inside," Sharley said. "You remember what I said, though – if you cling to Lorna like a damn leech, you'll only drive her away. And if you do that, I'll slap you into the Fourth Age."

From all Galadriel had said, she might actually be able to _do_ that. "I will keep it in mind. Farewell, Sharley. Do not destroy the rest of my forest while I am away."

"Nah," she said, "that's Lorna's job. Good luck." She turned and made her silent way down the road, which really was much wider than it had been. Lorna had cut a rather large swath of destruction through Mirkwood, and still seemed rather pleased with herself for doing so. He only hoped she would not grow furious with Von Ratched and wreck half of Minas Tirith. As amusing as that would be to witness, it would be rather counterproductive.

He still intended to go with her to hunt for Thorvald, if he at all could – not because he thought her unable to look after herself, because she had amply demonstrated that she could, but because he feared for his own sanity if he did not. Strong though her curse might be, she was still mortal; no matter what Sharley said, by the standards of the Eldar, they _were_ fragile.

But now was not the time to think of that. They could still cover a few miles before dark. Lorna would not care either way – she was in fact fast asleep, sprawled across the elk's back, limp as a noodle. He was honestly amazed she'd made it through Mirkwood in such a short amount of time, given her poor physical condition.

Going around the forest, rather than through it, had lengthened their journey, but no more so than trying to march nine thousand people along that road would have been. If the roads and weather held fair, it would be just under two months before they reached Gondor.

Gondor, but not Minas Tirith. He did not dare bring his army near enough for Von Ratched to infect – indeed he questioned Lorna's ability to protect _him_. Because of her pregnancy, they never had been able to test how far her immunity stretched to him. While it was possible Von Ratched could do him no harm, as he was already infected, it was not a surety. At least Lorna could hold him still with her telekinesis, if things went disastrously wrong.

"Stop worrying," she mumbled, not opening her eyes. "I can't kill him, but the Lady said it was okay if I broke both'v his legs. We'll be okay."

Thranduil wished he shared her confidence.

* * *

When they stopped for the night, Lorna woke long enough to actually eat dinner, though she kept nodding off.

As soon as she'd finished, she staggered to the tent, shucking her boot and outer clothes as soon as the flap was shut behind her, and all but collapsed onto the cot. It was wonderful to actually have a bed again; she hadn't dared leave the road at all in Mirkwood, which meant she'd spent a fortnight sleeping on stone, with only her pack for a pillow. She ached as much from that as from the walk itself.

She was somewhat surprised when Thranduil joined her, and quite happy that he let her cling to him like a barnacle. His wonky sleep schedule meant she often slept alone in the halls, but she always knew he was near, which had definitely not been the case in Mirkwood. He smelled a lot better than she probably did, but he didn't seem to mind.

"Need a bath tomorrow," she said, her words muffled by his shirt.

"Should you wake early enough, I will happily give you one."

Though he couldn't see her, she arched an eyebrow. "Oh, _will_ you?"

"Yes. I have missed you."

"Apparently. You'll have to wake me up, because I doubt I'll do it on my own."

"I know. Sleep, Dilthen Ettelëa. You need be on your guard no more."

* * *

Poor Geezer. One of my uncles fought in Vietnam, and he still won't talk about it to this day. Geezer's seen some nasty, nasty shit. (What he doesn't realize – yet – is that Sharley saved his life there, knowing he'd be needed later. He'll figure this out eventually.)

Title means "Power" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with love.


	53. Turgnamh

In which the army marches on, Legolas is not at all thrilled by his new position as temporary king, and Lorna and Thranduil traumatize a few people.

* * *

Thranduil did indeed need to wake Lorna out of a dead sleep, so early that dawn hadn't stirred.

"Bath time, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, when she swatted at him without opening her eyes. "You smell."

"Gee, thanks," she said, struggling to reach something like actual consciousness. She flailed and fell off the bed when she tried to rise, and glared at him through her tangled hair when he chuckled. "Hush, you."

"You really are not a morning person, are you?" he asked, helping her to her feet.

"Does this even count as morning?" she asked, shoving her hair out of her face.

"As it is past midnight, yes, it technically does." Bless him, he'd lit the brazier, so she wouldn't freeze to death when she shucked the rest of her clothes. The big basin of water steamed, though it was too small for her to actually sit in. Instead she sat on a towel in front of it, wincing and wondering if her muscles would ever stop aching.

Thranduil sat behind her, and started teasing at her hair with a comb. She really did need to cut some of it off, no matter what he said, because at this point, she actually had to wrap it around her elbow to braid it to the end. Still, it was nice to have someone else care for it, and he knew how to comb without tugging at the roots.

"You really are filthy," he said, when he reached her scalp.

"I didn't exactly have spare water to take a bath," she pointed out.

"True. Tilt your head back and shut your eyes."

She did, and sighed happily when he poured a cup of warm water over her head, and then another, working it down to the ends of her hair. He followed it with shampoo, giving her a rather nice scalp massage in the process. By the time he went to rise it, she was practically purring.

He started on her shoulders with a soapy cloth, and he seemed to realize that she wasn't up for any shenanigans, because his touch was soothing and affectionate, but no more than that. While he massaged her aching back, it wasn't in any way calculated to turn her on – just to relax her, which it managed so well she almost fell asleep again.

"Sleep later, Dilthen Ettelëa," Thranduil said. "I do not need you falling forward and drowning in the basin."

"Yeah, that would be a _little_ hard to explain," Lorna said, struggling to rouse herself. "Get me the razor from my pack, will you? My armpits are a nightmare."

"Why do you do that?" he asked, rising to fetch it. "Most Edain women do not."

"Maybe not in Middle-Earth," she said, taking it from him. Shaving her armpits with a straight-razor was a bit of a delicate operation. "I always have, though, because a lot'v women in my world do. It just doesn't feel right if I don't." Her legs she didn't really care about, but she couldn't stand having hairy pits. It really did just feel _wrong_ to her.

"You are a strange creature," he said, waiting until she'd finished to resume his ministrations with the washcloth.

"If you've only just figured this out, I'm going to have to severely revise my opinion of your intelligence," she said, leaning back so he could wash her front, her head rested against his shoulder.

"Still you labor under the delusion that you are amusing," he said dryly.

She tilted her head back so she could look at him properly. "Admit it," she said, "your life would be boring as hell without me."

"You have me there," he said, and paused. "Lorna, do not leave again. I see now why you needed to, but this fortnight without you has been…unpleasant." His tone suggested it was far more than that, but like her, Thranduil wasn't great at using his words about some things.

"As much fun as I had in the forest, I missed you, too. I can't promise you I won't have to leave again, though. Thorvald, and all."

"I still want to go with you," he said, running his fingers through her hair. "Not because I think you incompetent, for I know now you are not, but because I would go mad not knowing where you were." He was visibly struggling with something, some thought he did not know how to articulate. "You do know I love you, Lorna," he said at last – half statement, half question.

"Well, that's a goddamn relief," she sighed. "I haven't wanted to say anything, mostly 'cause I wasn't sure how it would go over. I didn't want to make shite super awkward, if you didn't…yeah. I love you too, just in case, you know, you were wondering." God, she was crap at this, but she tried. She took comfort in the fact that he was just as bad.

"So…we are agreed?" he asked, unusually hesitant.

She gave him a light whack on the leg. "Yes, we are," she said. "I'd best start calling you allanah now, even if you're not little." She'd not done it yet because she knew he knew what it meant, and it was rather more intimate than Drag Queen Barbie (though there was no way she was totally retiring that one. Not unless he quit wearing dresses).

"Call me whatever you like, Dilthen Ettelëa. You will always be my little stranger."

"Not if I get some'v the shrooms from Wonderland," she said. "Then I'll grow ten feet tall and carry you around like a backpack. Apparently Lewis Carroll was high off his ass when he wrote _Alice in Wonderland._ I'd sure as hell believe it."

Thranduil sighed. "Never change, Dilthen Ettelëa. Never change."

She leaned up enough to give him a somewhat awkwardly-placed kiss on the jaw. "You either, Drag Queen Barbie."

* * *

Menelwen was right: Lorna did get used to the smell of so many horses, though it took a good four days, By the fifth she felt well enough to walk for a while, pacing Thranduil on the elk while they tried to see who could come up with the most creative profanity in Irish. There was something undeniably hilarious in watching him be so majestic and kingly while saying Von Ratched needed to be cornholed with a splintery broom handle.

Menelwen had evidently picked up enough Irish to understand part of that, for she choked, her face flaming, no doubt scandalized to hear her King use such language. Her expression made Lorna laugh until she nearly cried, and Thranduil had to pull her back up onto the elk before she tripped.

"Just imagine if she had understood the whole of that," he said in Irish.

"Don't torment the poor woman. I think you've just shocked ten years off her life. Not that that really matters, with an Elf." She shrugged her cloak off, letting the elk wear it for a bit – the days were growing ever warmer, and the combination of it and her walk was making her sweat. Of course _Elves_ didn't sweat, the perfect bastards.

"You need another bath," he said, still in Irish.

"Thanks for reminding me," she said. "You just want to get all my clothes off again."

"Admittedly, the thought had crossed my mind," he said blandly.

"I just bet it did."

What she liked best, though, was when the Elves would sing to pass the time. Their voices were as beautiful as her Mam's had been, and they would pass their song along, from one and of the army to the other, like a wave of sound. She never joined in, because her own voice, while good for a human, would have sounded horribly jarring; she just listened, drinking it all in along with the sunlight. After so many months spent indoors, she thought she'd never get enough of it. The halls might be beautiful, and carved to look like a forest, but there was no escaping the fact that you were underground. She'd need to make a point to get outside more often, and drag Thranduil with her.

* * *

Legolas was not at all thrilled by his new position, and even less thrilled at once again having Sharley for a guest.

The good thing about being prince in a kingdom of immortals was that it was permanent. Unless his father fell in battle, he need never worry about being king, but now he was forced to assume the mantle while his father still lived – and was desperately wishing he'd paid more attention to his lessons on statesmanship.

Thank Eru Lady Galadriel was staying. She almost made up for Sharley's presence – almost. Guilty though it made him feel, for she was a good person underneath all her layers of unsettling, but he could not endure her presence for long.

The worst part was that she seemed to understand, too – or at least, she was not surprised. How many people did she drive away, simply by being…whatever she was? He could not imagine such an existence.

Lady Galadriel did not seem to mind her, but there was little in Middle-Earth or out of it that could faze the Lady of Lothlórien. Whenever he could drag himself away from his father's desk, he would often see them walking together, when Sharley wasn't out dealing with what remained of their spider problem.

He was sat at that desk now, ready to tear his hair out. If something did march north, either from Gondor or Mordor, they would reach the Woodland Realm before Dale or Ere bor. Dain had sent him a message stating that Geezer wanted to give them a load of guns to stem the tide, and that Legolas did not want to do. He understood now why his father drank so much.

"What will you tell Dain?" Tauriel asked. She sat near the fire, going over an inventory of weapons, looking no happier than he felt.

"I do not know. From all Geezer has said these weapons do, I do not want them, but neither do I want any of our people to die for lack of them. His world must be a truly terrible place. Dain said that he is badly haunted by a war he fought some forty-five years ago – it is why his hands were so scarred when first he came here. I cannot imagine what the Battle of the Five Armies would have been like, had anyone possessed the sort of weapons he describes."

"If Von Ratched also creates them, we will need them, too," she pointed out. "And armor that will withstand them, if such a thing can be forged."

"The Dwarves are already working on that," he said. "They will share the process with our smiths, once they know what it is." He sighed. "I wish the strangers had never come here. My father is happier than I have been in centuries, and in healing we have learned much, but at what cost?"

"I do not know," Tauriel said, "but I greatly fear we will find out."

He sighed again. "I need a walk," he said. "Rest, Tauriel, and eat. None of this is so pressing that we cannot stop." He drained the last of his glass, and wandered out into the halls.

All was quiet, with his father and so many of the guard away. The people spoke mostly in whispers, as though they already grieved losses that had not yet happened. Even the light seemed muted, the shadows longer and deeper. He hoped it would not last.

* * *

After three more days of riding, the army had left Mirkwood itself behind. Though there were still plenty of scattered trees, they hadn't been touched by the forest's darkness, so Lorna let them be.

When they set up camp for the evening, Thranduil disappeared, leaving her to stay out of everyone's way while they set up tents. At least she could build the fires, so she didn't feel totally useless.

She'd got three going when Thranduil found her, looking disturbingly pleased, in his understated way.

"You're in such a good mood I'm a little worried," she said.

"It has been six weeks, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "If you are amenable, I would like to celebrate that."

Lorna laughed until she nearly choked. Apparently all men were the same in some ways, regardless of species. "You, Mister, have a one-track mind."

He arched an eyebrow, helping her to her feet. Just now he was the closest to unguarded she'd ever seen him in public, and she wished he could be like that more often. In some ways, being a king must really suck. Now, though – maybe it was the fact that they were traveling, and his only real duties extended to immediate things, like making camp. Lorna knew it had been a very long time since he'd gone further from Mirkwood than Dale, and she was glad he was enjoying rather than dreading it.

She took his hand while they walked, and was amused to see he'd pitched their tent rather far from the main camp – he probably didn't want his army to wind up traumatized by hearing their king get busy with his wife. The thought made her laugh, and when he asked, why, she told him.

"That was a consideration, yes," he said dryly.

"Thought so," she snickered, as he led her into the tent. He'd been cooking stew on the brazier, and the scent of it almost made her drool. She kicked off her boots before she dished up, sitting on a rug on the ground to eat.

"So, I have an idea," she said, when Thranduil sat facing her. "I want to try to build a cage around your mind, so that Von Ratched can't even try to get in there. That way he can't…I don't know, give you another mental infection, on top of the one I did."

"Can you do that?" he asked, pouring two glasses of wine.

"I think so. I did something like it for Ratiri, in the other timeline. As much as I'd like to cure your infection entirely before we get there, _that_ I still don't know how to do." She had no idea if she ever would, either. She wasn't sure anyone would know, since she doubted this had ever happened before.

"I do not wish to risk harming your mind again," he said. "I fear truly touching it again."

"Don't," she said, around a mouthful of stew. "I think it hurt me before because I was freaked out and fought it. We're a little more in tune now."

"You cannot know that," he protested.

"Of course I can. Eat up and I'll prove it." Unlike her, he could actually keep decent table manners, even when he was starving; she'd already wolfed down half her bowl.

"Should I be worried?" he asked, with the barest quirk of an eyebrow.

"Probably. Now eat up." She took a swig of wine, and burped.

"Lorna, you are so very charming," Thranduil said, dry as the Sahara.

"Hey, I've got much better since I met you," she said, mock offended. "You've got my memories – you know the gang and I would get drunk and belch Black Sabbath songs."

That must actually have been one of the memories he'd taken, because he laughed – really laughed, as he so seldom did. He was always pretty, her husband, in a remote sort of way, but when he laughed he was beautifully close to human.

"Oh, sod it," she muttered, snatching the bowl out of his hands and tackling him backward. He let out a distinctly un-Thranduil sound of surprise. "I'm going to kiss you," she said, grinning down at him, "and show you what it feels like for me, too. If we can get this down right, I'll blow your mind."

She kissed him before he could respond, bracing her hands on either side of his head. Predictably, he tasted far more like wine than stew, and it actually took him a fraction of a second to respond. When he did, however, he did it with gusto, his right hand trailing up her back to tangle in her hair.

Lorna shivered, and she took that feeling, the sensation of his fingers even through her tunic, and gently sent it to his mind. She knew it worked, because he halted a moment.

"See what I mean?" she asked, her breath ghosting over his lips.

"I do," he said. "I believe this could be very…educational."

She laughed. "Berk. Let's get off the floor before we knock over the brazier and light the whole damn tent on fire."

* * *

Thranduil actually slept that night, eventually, and woke unusually sore – and not just from the nail-marks on his back, though it felt like Lorna had actually clawed strips out of his skin.

Lorna herself was still sound asleep, head on his chest, her wild hair tangled around them both, like, well, Cthulu's tentacles. She'd probably sleep all day on the elk.

Last night had been…he could only call it a transformative experience. He'd been wanting simply a chance to finally take his wife properly to bed again, but he'd received so much more. Never had he known another's mind so intimately, and he knew Lorna hadn't, either. What had started as an exercise in carnal delight had turned into something so encompassing he had no word for it, but they had been, for a while at least, one person, unable to tell where one ended and the other began.

He ran his hand along her back, but she didn't wake – she merely plastered herself more thoroughly against his side, snuggling deeper under the blankets. He trusted her now with the safety of his mind, for he had felt the strength in hers. It had not been tempered yet, but it would be. Of that he had little doubt.

"Wake up, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, brushing the hair back from her face. "We must break camp soon."

"Don't wanna," she muttered, wrapping her arm around his waist and clinging like a limpet.

"We have little choice. You can nap on the elk." Prying her arm away was surprisingly difficult, so he had to resort to tickling.

_That_ woke her with a vengeance, and he was fairly sure the elbow he took to the stomach was unintentional. Fairly sure. She glowered at him through her hair, which seemed as reluctant to let him go as her arm.

"Twat," she muttered, yawning. "That wasn't fair."

"No, but it was effective. Up." He somehow disentangled himself from her hair, and set to hunting for his discarded clothes. At least she hadn't wrecked any of them.

"Eyebrows, Thranduil," she said, sitting up and shivering. The air was still chilly, and she seemed to take it as a personal affront. "Where the hell are my knickers?"

He threw them at her, and she winced when she struggled to put them on. "I am never going to walk straight again, and it's all your fault. Don't you sit there and look all smug about it, either."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," he said, pulling on his trousers.

"I just bet you don't," she said witheringly. "By the way, you have a very nice hickey."

"So do you," he pointed out. "We will leave the army somewhat disturbed today." His people always were disturbed by any sign that he was not, in fact, something apart from other Elves. Once upon a time, that would have annoyed him immensely; now he was simply amused.

Lorna laughed. "You sound a little too pleased by that."

"I take what pleasure I can," he said, with exaggerated dignity. "Also, I believe you have actually sliced bits out of my back. Next time we do this, cut your nails first."

"At least I'm not the only one who's sore."

"Menace," he said, throwing a sock at her. "You are an absolute menace."

* * *

So, there's porn that goes with this, but it's so porny I've actually put it up in its own separate post on my AO3 account, titled "Ettelea Interludes".

Title means "experiment" in Irish. As always, review feed me.


	54. Náire agus Fionnachtain

In which the Elven army is awkward as hell, Von Ratched discovers he might just be really screwed, and Sharley heads off to find Gandalf and Bilbo.

* * *

Menelwen was beyond embarrassed, and she knew she couldn't be the only one.

Oh, everyone _knew_ what the King and Lorna were up to, having pitched their tent so far from everyone else, but still. Mostly they'd been quiet about it, but for one brief time they had…not been. Thought of the King having an intimate life was rather like thinking of one's parents' relationship – meaning utterly wrong. So, so utterly wrong.

It didn't help that both moved with exaggerated care when they broke camp, or that Lorna, visibly exhausted, went to sleep as soon as she was on the elk. It also didn't help that the King had a very dark, very obvious mark just below his jaw, where even his high collar couldn't hide it.

Wrong. _So_ wrong. Menelwen found an excuse to march several rows away from the King's elk, and she was a little amused to see that practically everyone else was, too. They always gave the elk a wide enough berth for the animal to move comfortably, but it now practically had its own field.

"For a race that lives as long as we do, we should not find this awkward," Faelon said, falling into step beside her.

"I do not know about you, but the King has always seemed as a second father to me – distant, yes, but a father that protects us as his children. Now contemplate _your_ parents doing…that."

He must have, for he suddenly looked sick.

"And we have more than a month yet to Gondor," she mourned. "I only hope that will not be repeated too many times."

"I do not see how it _can_ be," Faelon said. "Lorna is so tiny, and the King is not."

It took Menelwen a moment to work that out, and when she had, she grimaced. The only thing worse than contemplating one's parents' intimate life was wondering how it _worked_, and it was the same now. "Thank you for that," she grumbled. "Now I will never get it out of my head."

"I live to serve," he said blandly, and she fought an urge to smack him like a child.

* * *

Sharley was restless, and she didn't know why.

She was used to being able to read the world's Time – to be able to follow a thread to whatever end, and thus know much of what went on (or had gone on, or would go on) practically anywhere. Middle-Earth, however, was totally alien to her, and it blinded her to a degree she had never before known.

As a result, she knew _something_ was wrong, but not what or where. And without knowledge of either, there was nothing she could do about it. Yet.

So she roamed Mirkwood, killing any spiders she found, because in an odd way, it reminded her of home. Large sections o the Other had been poisoned and cursed in Akathisia's War, and hadn't even begun to recover four hundred years later. True, Mirkwood was not nearly as hot or dry, and Middle-Earth's sky was blue, but the toxin that had bled into is bedrock was remarkably similar to some found in the Other.

It might not be hot, but the day was certainly warming, the sun trying in vain to pierce the canopy. Further down the road, however, it did more that pierce; Lorna really had torn a very wide strip of trees right out of the ground.

It was a damn good thing she had Thranduil, and would eventually have her children, because Sharley had seen what she might have become without them. On Earth, her temper had been horrendous; given this power without someone to care for, it would only have been a matter of time before she went to Gondor and started killing people with it, justifying the deaths to herself as being for the greater good. There was a darkness in her that she subsumed for the sake of those she loved – something Von Ratched would have figured out the hard way in the other timeline, when the ones she loved were taken from her. He sought to control and study; she would have sought only to destroy. And she would have been good at it.

What would happen to any of them now, Sharley wasn't sure. Six potentialities had split into nine, and who knew how many more would splinter off before they reached Gondor.

_"You really are kind of useless."_ That was Kurt, the third of her quartet of voices, and the nastiest.

"I'm well aware of that," she said, slicing through the heavy cables of a spiderweb. "Not that you're any better."

_"She's got you there,"_ Jimmy snickered.

_"Fuck off."_

_"_You_ fuck off."_

_"Children,"_ Sinsemilla said. Of the four, she was the only one Sharley genuinely _liked_, mostly because she was the only one out of all of them – Sharley herself included – who was consistently of any use. _"Sharley, what are you going to do if Sauron catches you? He's not like Von Ratched. He's tens of thousands of years old."_

"You know what'll happen if he tries to torture me," Sharley said darkly. "And_ that_ will keep him more than distracted."

All four of them were silent for a moment. _"You'd deliberately let that_ thing _out?"_ Kurt demanded._ "Are you completely insane?"_

"If it works, it works," she said, sword glinting in the sunlight as she hacked away. "I can't think of any better circumstances. It might as well be useful for _something_ for once."

_"That won't end well, Sharley,"_ he warned.

"When does anything I ever do?"

* * *

Von Ratched was uneasy.

Unlike Geezer, he was no precog, but he'd learned long ago to trust his instincts, and they screamed at him that something had gone very wrong.

It wasn't just that massive expenditure of power, though that certainly didn't help. No, something else was afoot, something that could be very dangerous to him.

If only he could use the Palantír. Unfortunately, given that both Sauron and Saruman had one, that just wasn't an option – the last thing he needed was for either to notice his presence.

But then, perhaps _he_ need not be the one to use it. In the books, Denethor had been ensnared by it; perhaps that would be necessary here was well. He could search, and Von Ratched could read what he saw, and none need know there was a telepath lurking in the heart of Minas Tirith.

So he hunted the boy – and Denethor really wasn't much more than a boy – down, planting a seed of curiosity in his mind. Ecthelion might have been a wiser choice, but Ecthelion's mind wasn't nearly as malleable, and any odd behavior from him would be far more noticeable than from his son, for teenagers were _always_ odd.

When Denethor had finished on the training grounds, he went to his father's study, where the Palantír was locked in a cupboard. He knew where the key was, however, and Von Ratched watched through his eyes as he unlocked and removed the large sphere. On the surface it was harmless enough, just a ball of black stone swirled with purple, but Von Ratched knew well what it could do.

He crept out of Denethor's mind when the boy set it on the desk – if he stayed, he ran the risk of either Sauron or Saruman sensing an alien presence in Denethor's head. He would read the child's memory later, and thus see what he had seen.

Once he knew what was wrong, he could figure out what to do about it.

* * *

Lorna napped most of the day, not even waking for lunch. Sleep was better, because _God_ she was sore, in more places than one.

When she finally did properly wake, they were setting up camp for the night, and she was more than amused to find none of the Elves would look directly at her _or_ Thranduil, and tended to turn red and awkward whenever either drew near. Apparently they really _had_ traumatized half the army – come the finish, they must have been louder than she'd thought. Oops.

"They all look like they've caught their parents screwing," she said in Irish, easing herself down to sit beside a fire.

"Many Elves look to their leaders as a sort of parent," he said, sitting beside her. "In a sense, you are not far off."

She laughed. "Poor bastards. Next time we need to make a point of being _quiet_, not seeing who can make the other the loudest. And it's going to be a while before the next time, because it feels like you about ripped me in half. I wasn't kidding about not being able to walk straight."

He looked so pleased by that that she threw a stick at him.

* * *

Von Ratched waited patiently while the Palantír captured Denethor's mind. The boy sat with it for several hours, during which time Von Ratched kept Ecthelion occupied and away from his study by telepathically suggesting other small tasks that couldn't wait.

Only when he felt Denethor pull away from the Palantír did he enter the study, quieting the boy's mind into almost comatose placidity. He took unusual care in reading that mind, for he was sure to need it later.

_To an untrained mind, the Palantír was directionless, much like a radio seeking frequencies. It had showed Denethor much that was ordinary, and therefore useless to Von Ratched – settlements in Gondor, farmer's fields in Anorien, although he was rather intrigued by brief glimpses of what he knew to be the Shire, even if Denethor didn't._

_And then the thing roved over Angmar, and Von Ratched froze._

_The kingdom of Angmar had been deserted for a thousand years, but there was nothing at all left of it now, no trace that it had ever been, and the Palantír had communicated to Denethor something he could not have recognized: the immense force of power that had scrubbed it clean. What had happened, Von Ratched didn't know, but it had happened there, with a vengeance._

_The Palantír showed bits and pieces: people, or people-shaped creatures as alien to Middle-Earth as he was, pouring through an invisible doorway and spreading out over the land like ants. They slaughtered all they came into contact with, animals and orcs, moving into the Grey Mountains –_

_And then they, along with every other damn thing in the forest, died, killed by an immense, invisible wave of who knew what. Never had heard of anyone who could do such a thing, and he doubted Middle-Earth had, either._

_The white form of Lady Galadriel moved among the deadness, but she was not alone – there was someone beside her, someone the Palantír could not see. She, he was certain, had not been the one who had just killed absolutely_ everything _– nor was she the one whose power, when loosed on Angmar, wiped it clear of what little of its former civilization remained, and of the evil that lingered._

_Whatever had happened, the Palantír showed no more of it; the next thing Denethor had seen was –_

It wasn't often that Von Ratched swore, but he hissed, "_Fuck_." An army of nine thousand damned Wood-Elves was headed his way, summoned, it would seem, by Lorna – though she had managed _that_ feat, he couldn't guess. At least Galadriel wasn't among them, or he'd have no hope at all.

With that many Elves, he needed far more human shields than Minas Tirith had already. Middle-Earth's medieval-style travel restrictions worked in his favor this time, for it meant he had time to bring in more people, and to finish the most basic of his weapons.

Attacking the Elves telepathically would be mental suicide, but Lorna was no Elf. Even if he couldn't control her, he _could_ incapacitate her, and he might do it out of sheer spite, since he knew he'd never actually get his hands on her. Apparently even he wasn't above petty motives.

Nine thousand Wood-Elves, a society notoriously isolationist. How the _hell_ had she managed _that_? Oh, she knew he was dangerous – though not just _how_ dangerous – but Elves were Elves, and he was mortal. He'd it far more likely they'd just wait for him to die.

Perhaps it had been the others, those who had been in the Institute, though if they had been among the army, he did not know it. If they were, he'd use them as he saw fit, and dispose of them later.

* * *

Sharley swiftly came to the conclusion that she needed to leave Mirkwood – that she needed to find Gandalf and Bilbo. She was freaking the Elves out just by being here, the spider population was nearly down to zero, and dammit, she wanted to see more of this world.

So she strapped her sword to her back and went to bid Galadriel farewell, leaving it up to her to inform the increasingly harassed Legolas. He'd be relieved to have her gone, even if he was too polite to ever say so.

"Take care, child," Galadriel said. "When all is over, you must visit Lothlórien."

Sharley smiled crookedly. "I doubt your people would like that."

"You would be surprised," Galadriel said. "Farewell, for now."

"For now." Sharley She was heartened by the fact that Galadriel really did seem to actually _like_ her.

She set off at nightfall, watching the stars come out above the path Lorna had hacked through Mirkwood.

There were so damn many of them here. The Other didn't have stars, nor a moon or anything like a proper sun, and they fascinated her. She'd spent the first eight years of her life on Earth, and stints of various lengths throughout the twentieth century, and still she'd never got her fill of them. Nowhere on Earth had she seen them so many, though, and the light of the rising moon was somehow clearer here, too.

_"You want to stay here, don't you?"_ Sinsemilla asked.

"Yeah," Sharley said softly, "but I can't. I don't belong in Middle-Earth, and it knows it. Maybe I can come back for some visits, though." She certainly hoped so. While she wasn't at peace here, she was as close as she was ever going to get.

Four days she walked through this forest that reminded her of home, along the gold-lit road surrounded by walls of felled trees. No longer did it smell only of mildew and rotten leaves; there was the sweetness of dried wood and earth, with a few new green shoots already reaching for the sun.

_Life finds a way_, she thought, as she emerged out into tall, pale green grass. _And so will I. Somehow._

Leaving the trees, Lorna discovered, had one very large drawback: it was absolutely impossible to take a piss in private. She had to stop to go a lot more often than the Elves, which meant ducking behind the elk and hoping no passing horses stepped on her. It really was a goddamn good thing she had no shame, or this would have been really awkward. It kind of was anyway.

"Your bladder must be as small as the rest of you," Thranduil observed, earning him a double-barrel flip off.

"Quiet, you," she said, pulling up her trousers. Thank God her tunic was long, so she didn't have to moon anyone. "Just because you have some freaky Elf bladder doesn't mean you can insult mine."

"Freaky Elf bladder?" he repeated, arching an eyebrow as he lifted her back onto the elk. "Please explain how a bladder can be 'freaky'."

"The fact that it takes two frigging days to fill up?" she offered. "And don't get me started on how long you people can go without taking a shit."

The corners of mouth twitched up into a half-smile – his equivalent of laughter when surrounded by other people. She still thought it sucked that he felt he had to be so reserved in front of his own people, but she didn't know a damn thing about being a king – he had to have a reason for it, or he wouldn't do it. Someday she'd get him to really laugh before God and everybody, but it would probably be a while. That level of reserve wasn't broken overnight.

"Dilthen Ettelëa, every time I think you cannot grow more vulgar, you always manage to surprise me," he said.

"I don't know if that's a compliment, but I'm choosing to take it that way," she said.

"Of course you are."

She shifted in her seat, wincing a little. The elk might be more comfortable than a bike or a horse, but the fact remained that you had to sit on it in a way that wasn't entirely pleasant for her right now.

"Still sore?" he asked in English.

"Yes, you twat," she grumbled. "I probably will be until we reach bloody Gondor, which is a crying shame, because I've thought'v a few creative ways to retaliate."

"So get the healers to give you one of their draughts against pain," he said. "It is not as though they will ask you why." Even yet, very few could meet their eyes, which Lorna felt kind of bad about.

"Stop tormenting them," she said, turning to look at him. "How would you feel if you overheard _your_ parents going at it?"

Thranduil looked suddenly ill, his face going faintly green.

"Thought so."

* * *

Oh, Von Ratched, good luck. Also, poor Wood-Elves. Sharley's adventures through the Misty Mountains ought to be fun, at least. "Life finds a way" I cribbed from _Jurassic Park_, because it was apt.

Title means "Embarrassment and Discovery" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me life.


	55. Dúisigh

In which Von Ratched makes preparations, Sharley meets Beorn (which does not go well), and Lorna gets some bad, bad news from the Lady.

* * *

Von Ratched was not one to sit idle. He immediately planted the suggestion of a spring festival in Echthelion's mind, at the same time as he sent an urge to travel to Minas Tirith into the minds of as many subjects as he could. It would not look right for the farmers to leave their fields at this time of year, but Gondor was a decent-sized country with a variety of professions. Tailors, blacksmiths, farriers, tanners, carpenters – there were thousands of them to be found, and he called to them all. Even those who did not reach Minas Tirith before the Elves would prove an impediment, and buy him more time.

He strode through the streets now, unnoticed in spite of his unusual height, to inspect the armory. He didn't have nearly as many weapons as he'd wanted, and what he _did_ have were more rudimentary than he liked, but they were better than nothing. Crude bazookas, simple flintlock rifles – they would have been considered primitive even when he was young, but the Elves would not be expecting them. That ought to give him an edge, at least for a little while.

If things grew too dire, there _was_ something he could try, but it was not something he had ever done to more than one person at a time, and in any event it would likely be harder with Elves.

It was possible, and not unduly difficult, to stop a person's heart. He'd killed his mother that way, two days after he'd turned eighteen. The trouble was that it took a fair bit of concentration, which might not be possible to do with multiple targets.

Well. There were many people on the way, some of whom would arrive within days. Perhaps he needed to practice.

* * *

The next fortnight of travel was so peaceful and routine that Lorna got bored pretty fast.

She walked quite a bit, which at least kept her physically busy, but she was far too short to see anything of the countryside. The elk afforded her a good view, but even once her soreness faded, it still wasn't the most comfortable thing to ride.

And, of course, none of the Elves seemed to tire, which she was really beginning to resent. Many of them were also still avoiding her and Thranduil, which at least was somewhat amusing. She was in such a rotten mood that some unfairly vindictive part of her wanted to traumatize them all over again. Maybe she would, once she'd had a bath.

They were following the line of the River Anduin, which at least meant they had plenty of fresh water, which she was finding increasingly necessary – especially since she'd spent last week dealing with her period, which had not improved her temper at all. The only thing that made it bearable was having the opportunity to wash herself and her pads, or she might have just throttled someone with one.

But she'd passed that now, thank God, and was simply faced with trying to deal with the monotony of traveling by foot. She explained to Menelwen (who still wouldn't properly look at her) the intricacies of Russian prison tattoos, taught Thranduil to recite the entirety of Edgar Allen Poe's _The Raven_ in Irish, and one evening _finally_ managed to con him into cutting off some of her hair.

It wasn't that she didn't like having it long – just not _this_ long. It had been down to her arse when she came to Middle-Earth, but it was nearly to her calves now – she'd tripped over it more than once.

"Just level it off at my hipbone," she said. "I'm not asking you to give me a pig-shave, for Christ's sake, so don't go giving me that look. Get this done, set our tent up a ways away, and I'll pay you back."

_That_ got his attention. "How?"

"You won't find out until you've cut my hair, so start sawing."

He didn't saw – actually, from the feel of it, he was using it much as her sister did with a razor. Mairead was a hairdresser, and it had driven her mad that Lorna had never let her do anything but trim her hair. Lorna had a lot of hair, so it took a while, but she'd swear her head felt lighter when it was done.

She turned to find him carefully sweeping up the severed strands. "What're you doing?"

"I was going to put it into a pillow," he said, sticking the cuttings in his pocket.

Lorna twitched. "Okay, this might just be cultural differences talking, but that is seriously creepy," she said. "There was an episode of _The X-Files_ about a bloke who did that. He was a serial killer who kept women's fingers in his icebox."

Thranduil arched an eyebrow. "Dilthen Ettelëa, sometimes I do not know what to make of you."

"Set that tent up and I'll make something out'v _you_."

* * *

The night air was silent as Sharley strode through the tall grass, and utterly still. Although the days were warmer now, it still got pretty cold once the sun went down, though it didn't bother her.

The voices had been happy to chatter to themselves, about every damn thing they saw, without needing any actual input from her, so she took in Middle-Earth in silence. It was so beautiful it occasionally hurt, and she would bet most of its inhabitants took it entirely for granted.

She sure as hell didn't. She watched the stars as she strode her way along, headed straight for the Misty Mountains, so oblivious to the rest of her surroundings that she wasn't aware of the bear until it growled at her.

How she'd missed it, she didn't know – the thing was _huge_, far bigger than any bear on Earth, and it wasn't happy with her.

"Sorry, dude," she said, halting. "I'm just passing through." Amazingly, the animal didn't seem afraid of her at all – just angry – and when she focused on its Time, she saw why.

"That's just cheating," she said, though she knew neither bear nor man would understand her. "Neat trick, though." Disturbingly, there was a manacle on his left foreleg – what the hell could possibly have taken _him_ prisoner? Whatever it was, she wondered what he'd done to it.

The sword could cut through that thing, but the man-bear probably wouldn't go for _that_, and she couldn't blame him at all. Instead she focused on it, on the ugly, torturous lines of Time that wound around it. All metal corroded with time; she just needed to speed up the process until it rusted and fell apart.

The bear must have sensed she was doing _something_, because he growled again, deep as thunder. Sharley ignored him, because she was almost through –

The manacle rusted apart at the same time the bear swung one massive paw at her, claws extended, ripping the fabric of her shirt like tissue. It didn't rip her _skin_, however, and that seemed to confuse him.

"You're welcome, asshole," she grumbled, looking at the tatters of her shirt. She didn't have any spare clothes, so she'd be going on like this. Great.

_"And this is why we don't help people,"_ Kurt said. _"For a given definition of 'people'."_

"No shit," Sharley muttered, stalking around the bear, who finally seemed to notice the remnants of the shackle that was no longer on his leg. Nice.

She heard his heavy footsteps follow her at a distance, but ignored him, instead wondering what could be done about her shredded shirt. Why the hell hadn't she let the Elves give her more clothes? Somehow, she doubted Gandalf or Bilbo would appreciate getting flashed by a scarred-up living dead girl.

Still the bear followed, and still she ignored it, while the stars went out and the eastern sky lightened. Sharley didn't know how many hundreds of sunrises she'd seen, they never lost their wonder, but they were especially wondrous here: there was no pollution to dim the sky or foul the air – nothing artificial at all, actually.

In the 1970's, she'd worked in a logging camp in Oregon, and had known some beautiful mornings, but all too soon the stillness had been shattered by machinery. There were no machines in Middle-Earth – at least, not as she qualified them.

The tread of the footsteps behind her changed, as did the number of them; four became two, which were lighter than the bear's had been. Still Sharley didn't turn around, because she didn't want her burgeoning good mood ruined by some duckweed who'd tried to kill her for doing him a favor. (Never mind that he'd been an animal, and animals hated her. He'd wrecked her only shit, he could fuck off.)

Eventually, however, he spoke. Of course she couldn't understand a word of it, but she turned anyway, and found herself faced with a guy who had to be close to eight goddamn feet tall – a very _naked_ guy, no less. Fortunately, Sharley's capacity for embarrassment had died when she did. Even human-shaped, he retained a certain number of animalistic characteristics – a wild mane of hair that hooked seamlessly into mutton-chops, and golden eyes like an owl's.

"Sorry, man," she said. "I don't speak your language."

He blinked, and she could practically see the gears in his head turning. After a moment he tapped his wrist, now free of the shackle, clearly wondering how she'd done it.

How could she possibly explain that without words? Hell, most people had a hard time believing it when she _did_ use words.

She looked around, and found a clump of wildflowers that hadn't yet begun to bloom. Beckoning him to follow her, she gently took hold of the flowers' Time, winding it even more gently forward The blooms, which looked like some kind of pink daisy, unfurled by degrees, the leaves growing broader and fuller.

He stared at them, and at her, but surprisingly, he didn't look away. Instead he pointed at her shirt, and her distinctly uninjured abdomen.

"Can't fix my own stuff," she said, which was annoyingly true.

He pointed again at her abdomen, and she could decipher the question in his eyes easily enough. She carried a normal knife for everyday tasks, so she pulled it from her belt and ran it down her bare arm. The top layer of skin parted momentarily, a very little, but she no longer had any blood to shed, and it sealed itself again almost immediately.

_Now_ he recoiled, and she wasn't surprised. Sensing that she was unnatural was one thing, but seeing it was quite another. His eyes flickered from her arm to her face.

Sharley half-smiled. "I get that a lot," she said. "Don't worry, I'm not hanging around." She turned and set off on her way again, but jumped when he tapped her shoulder, spinning to face him again.

To her incredulity, now _he_ beckoned _her_ to follow. What the hell?

_"Clearly, being a bear has driven this guy insane,"_ Kurt said, his tone as filled with disbelief as Sharley herself. _"Don't do it."_

"Why not?" she asked. "Now I'm curious." Follow she did, while the rising sun made the grass glow. She _was_ curious, and it wasn't like he could actually hurt her. He sure as hell knew that now.

* * *

_Lorna, weary from far more than just their long day of travel, slept deeply, and at first peacefully. Her dreams were an ordinary jumble, vague and strange, nothing she would likely remember with any clarity when she woke._

_At first._

_Her dreams shifted into something far more vivid, so real she could feel and taste and smell them._

_She was in the Garden, but not the Garden as she had ever seen it: the stars in the night sky were dim, the light of the moon sickly rather than silver. This was a place she didn't recognize – stream and stone and willow were nowhere to be seen. Instead she moved among trellises festooned with dying roses, their scenting hanging heavy in the hot, breathless air._

_What the hell had_ happened _here? That something could sicken the Garden royally freaked her out._

_"He is awake."_

_She turned, and found the Lady had come up silently behind her. "What?"_

_"He is awake. Thorvald. He has not yet escaped, but I cannot keep him and that which created him locked away forever. What made him is the greater threat – if I must allow Thorvald to escape to keep it contained, I will."_

_"What do you mean, what_ made _him? I thought he was human."_

_"He was," the Lady said. "He still is, in a sense. You will understand better if I show you."_

_"Okay," Lorna said uneasily, knowing already that she wasn't going to like what she saw._

_Apparently, she was meant to see this through Thorvald's eyes. She was in a cave, a deep cave beyond the end of the world - a cave so huge it encompassed a world of its own. The sky was as dark as that of the dream-forest, black and smooth as velvet, and before her stood the most massive tree she had ever seen. Huge and thick as a tower, it was terrible in a way she had never before known, though whether that terribleness was real or a product of these alien eyes, she couldn't tell. It was the world-tree, outside the Earth, outside the Garden, over the edge of sanity. How had she gotten here? Vague, cloudy, unknown. She was here, and she didn't know what to do - all she could do was approach the awesome tree, laying one long hand on its rough bark. _

_It pulsed beneath her fingers with a heartbeat beyond the ultrasonic, something that could not be heard but only felt, and with nary a qualm she began to climb. Thorvald had not lied - it was not death he sought but life, eternal life, the immortality no alchemist would ever find. Up, up, up through the branches, that pulse hammering so deep she thought it would stop her heart. All would be worth it when she found the crown, the pinnacle of all life._

_Still she climbed, ignoring the burn of protesting muscles. The black sky was near now, impossibly close to the highest boughs, appearing and disappearing through the dance of silver-edged leaves. She reached - reached - her fingers fought for purchase, hauling herself up branch by branch, until there was nothing but sky above her. The ground was so far below that it was hazy, nearly unreal, but she didn't care. She'd found the apex of life - she'd found-_

_"Death."_

_The word was a whisper, soft and insidious, and with a wholly alien dread she turned to find…something…hovering beside her. A figure, dark, little more than a smoky outline, but with eyes that burned like the fires of Hell._

_"I thank you, mortal," it said, in a voice cold and empty as space, as remote and inhuman as the stars. "You who dare seek immortality release me. I grant you life eternal, but have a care. Humans are not meant to live forever, and you will ruse this and curse me a thousand times ere the end. For you know not what you have done, but you and all your kind will soon know what comes of releasing the God of Death."_

_Lorna blinked, staggering a little as she drew in a deep, horrified breath. "What the actual fuck, Lady?" she said, trying to slow her pounding heart and failing. "Was that – what the hell was that thing?" _

_"My problem," the Lady said grimly, her deep, dark eyes grave. "If it had a name, it has long since been lost, but it is not what you need to fear. Thorvald is. It is as well that you march to meet Von Ratched, because you need to prepare for Thorvald's arrival, whenever that may be. If Middle-Earth must claim him, I will try to direct him far from Mordor."_

_"Why does Middle-Earth have to_ claim _any'v us?" Lorna demanded. "Why is this happening at all?"_

_"I do not know. I have no claim nor power over Arda, but somehow its gods have found the power to steal from Earth." She was definitely not happy about that, and Lorna wondered what would happy if she ever actually met any of Middle-Earth's deities. Maybe there would be punching involved._

_"So what do I do now?" she asked._

_"Warn Thranduil, and keep going. And once you are near enough, you must try to make telepathic contact with Von Ratched. I will warn him as well, but I doubt he will listen."_

_"Why doesn't that surprise me" Lorna muttered. "I'll tell Thranduil." She didn't really want to know how he'd react to_ that.

Tired though Thranduil was, he didn't sleep for very long. Lorna's unrest woke him, and he watched her, wondering if he should wake her in turn. She was frowning, her brows drawn together, a little paler than he liked even in the darkness. Whatever she was dreaming, it wasn't pleasant.

Her eyes opened before he could rouse her, their green depths deeply troubled. He knew that she could not see in the dark nearly as well as he did, but they found his face anyway. "We have a problem," she said. "Or rather, we're going to have a problem. The Lady told me Thorvald's awake, and that she might not be able to hold him for very long. We really are going to have to actually negotiate with Von Ratched." Her tone said everything about what she thought of _that_ idea.

Thranduil fought the urge to swear. He'd known all along that this was a possibility, but that didn't make him any happier about it. What in Eru's name were they to do, if the man did ally himself with Sauron? It was true that they had Sharley the Indestructible, but she was one person, and though she might hold power akin to the level of the Valar, a Vala she was not – and from what Galadriel had said, she was reluctant to use that power anyway, for fear of the damage it might cause. The fact that she actually could cause that level of damage only made him more wary of her.

"Well," he said at last, "that's unfortunate."

Lorna snorted with laughter, burying her face against his shoulder. "Thranduil, you really do have a gift for understatement. At least the bastard's not here yet, and if there's any luck in the universe, he won't turn up for a while. And at least we don't have to deal with whatever made him what he is – the Lady's stuck with that on Earth." She shivered. "She showed me what it was – how he got his weird, plague-ridden immortality. I think he found the end of our universe, and met something that called itself the God of Death, which he released like a goddamn dipshit. Except I don't think he did it on purpose – I think it used him without his knowing it, because he was too arrogant to think he actually could be used."

"That sounds rather like someone else we know of," he said, idly stroking her arm.

"Well, he _is_ one of Von Ratched's ancestors. It must run in the family. I'm really damn glad he's not the father of the twins, or I'd never be done worrying." She looked up at him. "Nobody in your family was a murderous sociopath, were they?"

"Not to my knowledge," Thranduil said dryly. "We are not, after all, Noldor."

Lorna laughed again. "Are there even any of them left in Middle-Earth, besides Galadriel?"

"Maglor, possibly. No one ever did know what became of him. Otherwise most died out, often at the hands of one another."

"I have such a hard time imagining Elves killing each other," she said, snuggling deeper under the blankets. "I can't see any'v you doing that now."

Now he was the one who laughed. "You would call it natural selection," he said. "All those willing to do so died precisely because they were willing."

Lorna was quiet a moment. "How willing are you to kill humans? Because if I was Von Ratched, I'd use the people of Minas Tirith as human shields."

Thranduil paused. That had not occurred to him, but then, he was neither Edain, nor from Lorna's world. Such was a terrible thing to even consider, but from all he knew of Von Ratched, he would not be surprised. "I do not know that we could," he said. "Especially not Edain who are being used without their consent."

"Then we might have a problem. One we've got to find a way around before we get there."

Thranduil could not imagine _how_, but they had a few weeks yet.

* * *

As Thranduil says, well, that's unfortunate. Unfortunately for Von Ratched, Lorna has indeed guessed his plan, though what they're going to do to get around it won't be an easy thing to figure out.

Title means "Awaken" in Irish. As always, review keep me going.


	56. Deacracht

In which Beorn and Sharley don't quite communicate, Ratiri wonders just how this became his life, and Lorna figures out that they've seriously fucked up.

* * *

Beorn was unsure just what he thought he was doing, bringing this woman-creature to his home. She was the most unnatural thing he had ever run across, but she was not evil. At the very least, he could replace the shirt he had destroyed.

She was silent as she followed, so much so that he would not have been certain she was still there if he hadn't been able to smell her. Whatever she was, she smelled like lightning, like a storm at the height of summer; what she did _not_ smell like was any manner of living being. He heard no heartbeat, nor intake of breath save for when she spoke, but she was not a wight. She was merely…alien, completely so, and he wondered where she was going, and what she meant to do when she got there.

It seemed he could not ask her, for she did not speak his language, nor did he understand hers. All he knew was that she was not an enemy, and that beneath her lightning-scent she smelled of sorrow. No evil creature could understand the emotion, let alone feel it.

The sun was well above the horizon when they reached his home, and when she saw the grazing ponies, she stopped. When he turned to her, she pointed at them, then at the corner of her eye, before laying a hand on her chest and then making a walking motion with her fingers. The translation was clear: if the animals saw her, they would run away.

He shook his head. If they knew she was here at his invitation, they would not flee, so he beckoned her after him again.

She shrugged, a gesture he took to mean, _I did warn you_, but she followed anyway, still silent, though there was curiosity in her strange, mismatched eyes.

When they drew near the ponies, however, again she hesitated, her stride growing shorter and more careful, almost as though she was as spooked of the ponies as she was certain they would be of her. How he wished he could communicate with her, in some way other than gestures. Something inside this woman-creature was broken, and he wanted to know what, and why.

The ponies' ears flicked back as they approached, but he made soothing sounds, and they placidly returned to eating grass. The woman's eyes widened when she drew near enough to touch one, and it didn't react at all. Something like wonder entered them, which he somehow doubted was an emotion she often felt.

Almost tentatively, she raised her right hand – a very _scarred_ hand, attached to an equally scarred arm. His claws might have dealt her no damage, but something had, at one point or another.

The pony gave her fingers a sniff, then went back to eating, leaving her visibly stunned, her expression saying everything she couldn't communicate with words.

"Follow me," he said, knowing she wouldn't understand, but needing to say it anyway.

* * *

How, Ratiri wondered, had this become his life?

He was attempting, at least in theory, to teach rescue breathing to a number of apprentice healers, all lined up in the city's meeting hall. One of the seamstresses had knocked him together a disturbingly realistic puppet of a human head and torso, which would be incredibly useful if only his students would get over being scandalized and/or amused. Even Sigrid was having a difficult time keeping a straight face, though at least she was trying, which was more than could be said for some of the others.

"Will you be serious or not?" he asked, in his broken Westron. He was learning, practicing it each evening that Arandur was with him and not Geezer, but he had a long way to go.

The giggling stopped, though one or two were still smiling. The bulk of the trainees were women and girls, which had at first surprised him, since most physicians on Earth right up through the twentieth century had been male. Arandur, slightly pink, had explained that since women saw far more blood than most men in their lives, the people of Esgaroth had long thought them better able to deal with it, and that belief had transferred to Dale.

It made a certain amount of sense. In a place lacking modern surgical tools, smaller hands would work better for many forms of surgery, too.

And many of these people _were_ surprisingly small. Ratiri had long been used to being by far the tallest person in the room, but so far, Bard was the tallest person he'd seen in Dale, at probably just shy of six feet. He hadn't properly realized how much of a difference nutrition could make in the average height of a population, but he certainly did now.

That had contributed to their architecture, too, at least in private homes. He'd been staying with Bard, and for nearly a fortnight he'd had a massive bruise on his forehead from constantly smacking it going through doorways. Galasríniel had finally threatened to sew a pillow around his head. He'd been half tempted to let her.

"_Anyway_," he said, eying his class. "You pinch the nose, make a seal with your mouth around that of your patient, and blow until you feel the lungs inflate. This takes exceptional care with young children and the elderly."

Arandur translated that, at which they all looked suddenly worried.

What _Ratiri_ worried about was hygiene. There were no mouth guards in Middle-Earth, and his means of disinfectant were limited to boiling and the strongest whiskey that could be found. At least they'd known enough to keep the sewage away from their water supply, but he still insisted they should boil it before they drank. Should dysentery or cholera break out, he didn't have any of the drugs he needed to treat them.

He'd also, once Galasríniel created enough toothbrushes, taught them how to brush and floss their teeth. It wouldn't be as effective without modern toothpaste, but it was better than nothing, and it made being in a crowd more bearable – for the most part. He'd grown up in a Western country where most people wore deodorant, so B.O. remained unpleasant to him. (His mother, who had grown up in semi-rural India, had thought deodorant ridiculously frivolous, but wore it anyway. The town he'd grown up in wasn't very large, nor had it been anything close to diverse, and unfortunately she'd felt leery of standing out any more than she already did.)

Dale itself, he'd found, was surprisingly actually a bit of a melting pot, which meant his skin tone didn't make him much of an oddity. Few black people, but a number from whatever Middle-Earth's equivalent of Asia was, with some who looked like they could actually have come from India, along with a decent-sized group who were obviously of mixed ancestry somewhere in their gene pool. When he'd asked Arandur about it, the Elf had said they were all descendants of people who had settled in old Dale, which had been a major trading hub in its heyday.

It was refreshing – and, to Ratiri, somewhat surprising – that racism didn't seem to be a thing here, either. But then, these people and their families had grown up together for generations, and in any event, the population of Dale was made up of people who had all survived the same disaster. That sort of thing did tend to bind a group together.

In any event, it meant only his height was what made him stick out, though admittedly that itself could be very awkward at times. Several of the children had decided he was a giant, and referred to him as such no matter how often their parents scolded them.

Sigrid, short though she was herself, had no problem at all ushering him around, which she did now, so that she could experiment with the dummy. He'd discovered she'd become substitute mother to her siblings when she was twelve years old, after her mother died in childbirth having Tilda, and it often showed, though she was barely twenty years old.

He stood back so that she could pinch the dummy's nose, carefully checking the tube of its airway for obstructions. Its 'lungs' were made of the same airtight material as the blood bags, and while they didn't inflate quite like actual lungs, it was close enough.

"All right," he said, through Arandur's translation, "make a seal around the mouth, so that none of your breath will be lost, and blow."

She did, carefully, and he watched the dummy's chest rise a fraction.

"More than that," he encouraged. "You don't need to be so careful with an adult."

She tried again, harder, and the chest inflated properly this time.

"Good. You do that, check for a pulse, and listen to the chest. If the person still isn't breathing, try again." He waited for Arandur to translate, and then the translation of her answer. That poor Elf.

"What happens if they do not breathe again?" she asked. "How many times should I do that, before I give up?"

"After five minutes without oxygen, clinical brain death sets in," he said, hoping Arandur could convey the meaning of 'clinical'. "Beyond that, there's no point. The person's gone."

"How did your people learn to do this?" one of the others – Agdis, that was her name – asked.

"Trial and error. We used to also do chest compressions, but that often did more harm than good. Most of our advances in medicine have come from experimentation."

"I do not know that word," Arandur said.

Ratiri considered a moment. "Testing," he said. "Someone would have an idea, and test it on other people."

"Did that not kill some of them?" Sigrid asked.

"It did, but most of them were dying anyway. Sooner or later, when we got it right, they started living. From there, we just made it better."

He wasn't going to mention that some of their advancements had come from supremely unethical human experimentation during World War II, or that America had pardoned some of the so-called 'doctors' involved so that they could mine their research. Geezer had tried to explain modern warfare to the Dwarves and the people of Dale, and neither could properly comprehend it – especially not the huge numbers of casualties involved. He'd told Ratiri he hoped they never had to los that innocence.

"I want you all to practice for the rest of the day," he said. "Tomorrow, I'll show you all how to draw blood." As of yet he only had a few needles to work with, but bless the Dwarves for being able to make them at all. Although even the thought of re-using needles, however carefully sterilized they were, made him shudder. Adapting to this world and its limitations was definitely an ongoing process.

* * *

Once again, Lorna woke exhausted and sore as hell, and once again she fell asleep almost as soon as she was on the elk. The warmth of the sun made that very easy.

_She dreamt of storms, here and on Earth, clouds like bruises on the sky with silver veins of lightning, hot wind that almost stole her breath. First she was on the mountain where she and Thranduil had met Aelis, but then she stood atop the wall of a white city that could only be in Middle-Earth, watching mountainous thunderheads creep ever closer over a grassy plane. The wind here was hot as well, and desert-dry, though unlike on the mountain, it was yet little more than a breeze._

_It worried her, but that worry was not wholly her own. Hundreds of people moved across the plane, on foot or horseback, all laden with supplies._ They _were nervous as hell, moving as fast as ever they could. There was something alien in all of them, some unnatural presence that was too uniform to be mere coincidence –_

_Oh. _

_Oh,_ fuck.

_Geezer had seen Von Ratched's fuck-up, had seen his use of his puppets_ en masse _that had triggered the storm in the first place, but now she knew _why – they _were the ones who'd fucked up, merely by leaving home._

_But could they turn around? Was it already too late?_

She woke with a start, and would have fallen off the elk if Thranduil hadn't caught her. When she looked south, there was indeed a smudge of darkness in the sky, very far away.

"_Motherfucker_," she hissed, wincing as she turned to look at him. "It's us," she said in Irish. "Why Von Ratched fucks up – it's because'v _us_. He knows we're coming, though fuck if I know _how_, and he really is gathering an assload'v human shields. Please tell me that dark blob in the distance isn't a storm."

Thranduil stared at her, his whole body going rigid. "I cannot," he said, "for that is what it is."

"Should we send the army home?" she asked. "What do we _do_?"

"It is too late for that. If the storm has begun, I doubt there is any stopping it, and if we truly must need with that _creature_, I would rather have an army at our back." He didn't sound at all happy about it, though.

"Yeah, but do we need _all_ of them? Wouldn't like, half of us work?" Knowing what harm the storm could do, she was willing to try damn near anything.

"It is unlikely he would know if we did – and even if he did discover it, I doubt it would alter his course of action." His lips thinned into a grim line, and she was pretty sure he was cursing Geezer's wonky prophecy, that left out such crucial information. _She_ sure as hell was. It just bloody figured that they'd be the ones to bring that nasty future about.

"You need to try to make contact with him," Thranduil said, echoing the Lady.

"At this distance?" she snorted. "Not a chance in hell. I'm still not sure just how far the range'v my telepathy stretches, but it's not all the way to bloody Minas Tirith. _Galadriel_ could probably do it, but I can't."

He was quiet a moment, gazing at the horizon before his eyes turned to her. "_He_ made contact with _you_ once, from a greater distance," he said. "The link is there, if you would be willing to seek it. I closed it off so that he would not use it again, but I can open it."

The thought was more than a little horrifying. Lorna had seen enough of that alternate universe to know that the man had been obsessed with her right up until the day he died, and while this _wasn't_ that universe, he'd probably seen it, too.

And even if he hadn't, she was still probably the only telepath he'd ever found, which was why he'd become obsessed with her in the first place. She knew how old he was – she really doubted her telepathy was anywhere near as strong as his, though her telekinesis could probably give his a run for its money. What if he…trapped her, somehow?

"Would you be ready to shut it off again, if I needed it?" she asked, wishing she could read Thranduil better.

"I will," he promised. "He cannot hurt you, Lorna, though in truth I doubt he will try."

_She_ wasn't so sure about it, but she had to give it a shot. Even if it didn't work, at least she'd be able to say she tried. "Okay," she said, "but not yet. I'd like to be still and away from people before I attempt _that_."

"That is probably wise," he agreed. "Also, you ought to get drunk first."

"_What?_" she asked, her eyebrows climbing.

"The minds of the intoxicated are difficult to navigate," he explained, "and thus, I think, more difficult to trap. Get drunk, deal with him, and I will give you a bath – and no, I will not seek more than that, as I know how sore you are."

"You're goddamn right on _that_ score," she grumbled. "Fine, I'll try it. I just hope this isn't going to backfire like a bastard."

"Your optimism is so infectious," he said dryly. "Do try to contain your enthusiasm."

"Twat."

"That's the spirit."

* * *

Beorn led the strange woman into his yard, and while the wariness remained in her eyes, the wonder grew.

The animals, true to the promise she could not understand, paid her little heed, but even that seemed to stun her. How old was she, and had she ever been near a living creature without at least unnerving it? Judging by her reaction, he would think the latter would be a resounding 'no'.

He had few shirts, for he seldom wore one, but he ought to replace hers. While she was taller even than many Elven women, it would still be huge on her, for she was rawboned, her height not balanced with broadness. Somehow, he doubted she would mind.

Did she eat? Given that she drew no breath, he wouldn't think so, but as a host he should offer anyway, if he could actually communicate the offer.

What was she, this storm-woman? Beorn was not as old as some, but neither was he young, and never had he encountered anyone like her. She had the air of a restless traveler about her, so others had to have met her. Perhaps the Elves would know more – not that many of _them_ traveled in this direction from Mirkwood.

Though, a very large host had passed some weeks before. He did not know why, nor where they were going, and he did not want to imagine what could have induced so many to leave their home. Something had also torn a great swathe out of the forest, and he wondered if that was her doing. He could think of nothing native to Middle-Earth capable of managing it.

She followed him into his house, her eyes darting everywhere, and she smiled. It was like the sun breaking through clouds – it made her look both younger and _alive_, and when she spoke, though he could not understand her words, there was actual delight in her voice. Perhaps his home reminded her of something – if so, he wished he knew what. Admittedly he was no great traveler, but he had heard many tongues spoken, and hers was like none of them.

He poured her a jug of milk – comically large, even for her – and she took it with obvious confusion, sniffing it before taking a hesitant drink. So she _could_ eat; he wondered if she actually needed to.

Now that he knew that, he cut some bread and slathered it with honey, setting it on a plate along with some slices of dried apple, gesturing for her to sit at the table. The stools were too small, the chair too large, so she sat _on_ the table, feet swinging as she drank her milk. The tension was fast leaving her shoulders, as though she drank wine rather than dairy.

He would feed her, and give her a fresh shirt, and then wonder how long it would take her to return the way he had come. For he was certain she would, sooner or later, though in what company, he could not guess.

Lorna really, really did _not_ want to do this. And she wasn't ashamed to admit that it was partly because she was afraid. And, surprisingly, it wasn't of Von Ratched.

No, it was of herself.

His curse was the same as her, and look what he was like. She'd long though that telepathy could easily prove an addictive short-cut to dealing with, well, _life_, which was why she'd only ever used it with Thranduil. The her in the other universe had only used it with Ratiri, precisely because she feared becoming like Von Ratched. Irrational though it was, she was half afraid he would somehow poison her mind as she had inadvertently poisoned Thranduil's.

But then, maybe it wasn't irrational. She knew next to nothing about her brand of telepathy, whereas he probably knew everything there was to know. That put her at a very severe disadvantage, and she had no way of knowing _how_ severe until she actually made contact with him.

Yes, she was scared, and that pissed her off. Before her curse hit, she'd been all but fearless, and look at her now. Granted, being afraid of Von Ratched was only smart, given what she knew of his power, but it still pissed her off. Especially because she didn't know how much _he_ knew about that alternate timeline – what he'd done, and why he'd wanted to. _That_ thought skeeved her right the fuck out, big-time. Lorna had gone through a lot of shit in her life, but nobody had ever actually tried to _rape_ her, let alone succeeded. She didn't want to imagine what that must have been like for her alternate self, even if the Lady really had taken her memory of it. She devoutly hoped it would never be one of the might-have-beens she'd see here.

It was not something she could properly articulate to Thranduil, either, because she couldn't articulate it to herself. But then, how _could_ she? She was trying to process something that hadn't actually happened to her.

So she was unusually quiet even once their tent was set up, and stared into the light of the brazier while she ate. Thranduil let her be, though when he was through eating, he sat behind her to comb out her hair. Of course he'd know that it soothed her – he'd done it often while she was pregnant and miserable.

"You do not have to do this tonight," he said.

"I kind'v do," she said, sipping wine. "If I don't, I'll totally lose my nerve, and sure God does that make me angry. I'm not used to being afraid. Not like this."

"Don't be," he said, drawing the comb from her scalp all the way to the end of her hair. "I am with you."

"I know," she said, drawing a deep breath and downing the rest of her wine. "Let's get this over with."

* * *

Well, this ought to get interesting. As always, reviews feed my hungry, hungry soul.

Title means "Problems" in Irish.


	57. Cumarsáid

In which Lorna makes contact with Von Ratched (and they annoy each other immensely), Sharley moves on (but makes plans to go back), and Lorna sees a might-have-been she'd really hoped she never would (and is understandably freaked out).

Trigger warning for the aftermath of off-screen rape that didn't actually happen in this timeline.

* * *

Being drunk, Lorna decided, helped quite a bit. It took the edge off her nerves, and her burgeoning temper, and, once Thranduil let down the block he'd put on her mind, allowed her to seek Von Ratched's without fear.

_That the conduit was still very much there was downright disturbing – had Thranduil not placed a gate over it, she would have been stuck dealing with Von Ratched this whole time, and wasn't _that _a creepy thought. She probably would have stormed her way to Minas Tirith months ago, in the hope of jamming a knife between his eyes._

_It was with that slightly bloodthirsty thought that her mind sought his, traveling the two hundred miles that still lay between them and Minas Tirith. That she could do so at all was also disturbing, but hey, it was useful._

I know you're out there, you bastard,_ she thought_. We have a problem, and half of it's your fault.

Why hello, Lorna. I was wondering when you would speak to me again. _Christ, his mental voice still sounded just like his real one._ That _wasn't helpful._

I haven't got much choice, _she said_. How's the weather out there? It's your fault, you know. You shouldn't have tapped all your puppets.

_You_ are the one who raised an army of Elves against me, _he retorted._ How did you manage such a thing?

_I_ didn't. That was Geezer, but that's not the point, because it's only half our problem. The Lady told me she'd tell you Thorvald was awake, and that you probably wouldn't listen. I hope like hell you've got whatever it is that can kill him, or we're all screwed.

Yes, I have it, _he said irritably._ But the Lady said you must be the one to use it.

Which is why I'd rather go without you, _she said, not bothering to be anything but blunt_. If it's at all possible.

I would love to let you. I really am rather annoyed with you, Lorna.

I'm so hurt, _she said, as dry as a thought could be_. I'm none too pleased with you myself, but apparently we can't kill each other yet, so don't bother throwing your human shields at us.

And why, exactly, do you believe I have human shields?

Because it's what I'd do, if I was you, _she said flatly._ We'll reach Minas Tirith in another two weeks. Be ready.

She slammed her wall down before he could respond, and tapped Thranduil's knee. "Done," she said, and assumed he added his own defenses to hers. "Well, he's unhappy. Guess I did my job right."

Thranduil laughed. "He has been warned?"

"Yeah. Whether or not he'll pay _attention_, I don't know, but at least we tried."

"That we have. "Now that your hair is combed, you may as well have a bath."

"No funny business," she warned, turning. "I still feel like I got reamed out with a broom handle."

He arched an eyebrow. "That is possibly the least erotic thing I have ever heard anyone say in my life."

"If you wanted erotic, you married the wrong woman."

"I do seem to recall a memory of you vomiting on Liam," he said. "I am assuming that is why you have never done to me as I do to you."

"You assumed correctly," she said. "You want to talk about _least erotic_, it doesn't get much less sexy than that."

"True. I will heat some water, and if we cannot have a proper bath, it is better than nothing."

* * *

Sharley knew damn well why she lingered at Beorn's house – it reminded her of home, in a very different way than Mirkwood.

Tanya, the Other's third god (and the one who had resurrected Marty as a zombie) had a home much like this, though rather more haphazard, and with zombie children instead of animals – not that that was much different, since small children sometimes _behaved_ like animals.

Not that she could communicate this to Beorn, whose name she learned through pantomime. He was hard to read, but she didn't think he minded the language barrier, and while he was wary of her, he was far less so than most in this world. He even gave her a shirt to replace her ruined one – it was rather too large, which wasn't something that often happened with her and borrowed clothing, made of soft leather that was surprisingly warm.

He made a motion with his hands, mimicking a head resting on a pillow – asking if she needed to sleep, she was sure.

Sharley shook her head. She hadn't been able to sleep since she died, and she missed it. Not because of physical exhaustion, since that wasn't a problem for her anymore, but because it was yet another reminder that she was no longer human.

Much though she wanted to stay another day, she really should get going. The moon was beginning to wane, but her night-vision was good; she wouldn't be hindered by anything. She strapped her sword on her back again, but Beorn violently shook his head when she made for the door, which she took to mean he said there was danger out there.

Shaking her own head again, she mimed nails ripping across her chest, then waved a dismissive hand – she'd be fine, she wanted to say. There was nothing in this corner of Middle-Earth that could hurt her, though it was welcome to try.

He must have understood, for resignation entered his expression.

"I'll come back," she said. "Maybe I'll have even learned some of your language by then." Gandalf spoke a fair bit of English, and God knew she'd have plenty of time to learn one of this world's languages along the way.

She didn't know if he took her meaning or not, but he led her outside. The sun had all but set, leaving the sky above deep purple, and she tipped him and all his animals a salute as she headed off into the night.

* * *

Von Ratched really did not know what to make of, well, _today_.

He'd known who Thorvald was, thanks to the incredibly creepy Aelis. It took a great deal to unsettle him, but she'd certainly managed it, in no small part because she so heavily resembled Lorna.

He was greatly surprised that Lorna herself would voluntarily make contact with him – and even more surprised by the strength of her telepathy, which she had _not_ held when last he spoke with her. Something had happened to her, and he very much wanted to know what.

What he did _not_ want was this storm, but here it was, and here it seemed determined to stay, panicking both those in Minas Tirith and the stream of people heading into it.

He didn't really wonder why, either. It had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, dark thunderheads massing with unnatural rapidity. The wind was far too hot for this time of year, certainly hotter than the spring day could justify, and there was a strange, metallic tang to it. It meant he was unable to blame the storm on natural phenomena.

He had to laugh to himself, even as he watched it all from atop the city's third wall. Geezer foresaw him cause the storm, which sent the Elves after him, which drove him to exerting the amount of magic needed to create it. Truly a self-fulfilling prophecy.

But then, perhaps that knowledge could be useful. Whenever Thorvald arrived, a storm would almost certainly slow him down at least a little, and now Von Ratched knew how to make one.

He did not, however, know what to make of Thorvald himself. From all the Lady had showed, he'd been little more than a boy when he 'died', an arrogant child who thought he could play God. The problem as that he had power to back up that arrogance, and a very great deal of it. It was, Von Ratched had to grudgingly admit, of a level that rivaled – or even surpassed – his own, and that infuriated him. Contending with the power of Elves and wizards was one thing, but Thorvald was – or had been – human.

The little shit had to die. For good, this time. There could only be one such as Von Ratched, and he was it.

But then there was also Lorna – Lorna, who was herself strong enough to be a threat, and who came with an army of Elves. She seemed to know that they had to cooperate to deal with Thorvald, but after that, she had no reason not to try to kill him, and very good reason to want to. He could probably kill _her_, but that would still leave him with nine thousand angry Elves, and even he probably couldn't kill all of _them_ before one of them took him out. And even if he could, doing so would expose his presence to people he did not want to notice him yet. Or ever.

His head was beginning to ache. He needed more of his morphine substitute, and then Denethor had another date with the Palantír.

* * *

Incredibly, all through the next week of travel, the storm raged in the distance – and even more incredibly, it spread, the dark clouds spilling across the sky like oil, bringing wind and lightning but not a drop of rain.

It slowed them, for the horses were spooked by the lighting, and the wind meant that for several days, they couldn't even set up the tents and night. Those that slept did so under the clouds, unable to light the braziers for fear of starting wildfire.

The further they went, the quieter Lorna grew, to the point where she knew Thranduil was worried about her. He, however, knew better than to prod at her until she was ready to speak, which gave her time to try to actually put words around what she was feeling. Even now, using her words was not her strong point.

Even once they'd stopped for the night, Thranduil didn't press her – he was sitting beside the lantern that had to take the place of the brazier and polishing his armor when she fell asleep, though it hardly needed it.

_She dreamt that she was returning to consciousness - a gradual, unwilling sharpening of awareness. Her battered psyche tried to remain submerged, but pain dragged her awake._

_'Pain' didn't begin to describe it. The leg and shoulder were a given, but even breathing hurt, her throat scratchy and her right side flaring white-hot when she shifted. Her mouth was dry and sour with the metallic tang of blood, and when she opened her eyes even the dim light was too much. It stabbed straight into her brain like knives of ice._

_At first she had no idea where she even was, let alone how she'd got here. Memory came to her slowly, in small, foggy increments - her fight with Von Ratched, being dragged off away from the cold - this was his room. This was his room, and she was fairly sure he'd done something terrible to her, though at least no memory of_ that _surfaced._

_A cautious attempt to sit up sent pain exploding all through her. Lorna ground her teeth to avoid crying out, and even her jaw hurt - one of her molars had been knocked loose, and she actually felt it crack. Shit._

_She might not remember what Von Ratched had done to her, but the evidence was plain enough. Her T-shirt was torn in half, but her swimming vision found her sweatpants on the floor. Reaching for them was too much effort, but she managed to summon enough telekinesis to pull them to her. Getting them on was a whole other level of difficulty, but she had to. She just…had to._

Get up, _she ordered herself, but oh God she was tired, tired and hurting and cocooned by a mental numbness she feared to disturb. Breaking it, facing reality head-on, would drive her mad. _Get up.

_Through some Herculean force of will she managed to rise, though her bad leg almost gave out on her. She wrapped the bedspread around herself before hobbling to the bathroom - she had a morbid need to see the damage. When she clicked on the light switch, the room was filled with an obscenely rosy glow that made her squint, almost blinding her._

_With difficulty Lorna approached the sink, leaning heavily on the counter while she surveyed her reflection. Bruises in the shape of fingers were already darkening her throat, and her nose had been broken, covering half her face in blood - some of what she tasted was her own. It was dried now, rusty-brown and flaky; she'd been unconscious for some time, she realized dimly. Her lower lip was swollen and split, pain flaring and ebbing with every beat of her heart, but it wasn't from a punch - holy Christ, the bastard had_ bitten _it._

_That was enough to make her turn away, stumbling and crawling for the toilet, where she threw up everything she'd eaten in what seemed like another lifetime. She dry-heaved a long while after that, kneeling on the cold tile while her body trembled and her mind retreated deeper into its protective cocoon. Her psyche was a piece of crystal nestled in cotton wool, and she wanted to leave it there._

Cry, dammit,_ she told herself._ Cry and get it over with_._

_But she couldn't. Her eyes dry and burning, all Lorna could do was rest her head against the porcelain basin, shivering as though in deep cold. The only thing she was truly capable of thinking was finding a way to end it. Von Ratched had got rid of all his sharp objects, but there was still the mirror._

_With immense difficulty she hauled herself upright again, and stared at her hollow-eyed reflection. She looked more zombie than human, and with a sudden surge of rage she smashed both her fists into the mirror. It shattered into hundreds of glittering shards, and her fingers closed around the biggest piece she could find._

No.

_That single word made her pause. It wasn't her own thought, but it certainly couldn't be Von Ratched's. She eyed the glass and her arm, ignoring it, wondering how long it would take her to bleed to death._

No. If you quit now, he wins.

_"He already won," she muttered, but her abused throat could barely form words._

He hasn't, and he won't. Not unless you die.

_"Fuck off." Lorna rested the sharpest point of the glass on the inside of her wrist. What was it? 'Down the road, not across the street'? It wouldn't be hard to slice open her whole forearm. She might not even need to do the other._

_And yet she hesitated. There was nothing she could do to Von Ratched, and running away was impossible - this was the only out she had, but she hesitated nonetheless. Was she really such a coward?_

Who are you in the dark, Lorna?

_"Who the fuck're _you,_ to ask me that?" she demanded. "How _dare _you?"_

She woke with a cry of formless horror, and immediately rolled over to be sick off the edge of the cot. _God_…her skin still crawled even now she was awake, the terror and shame of a memory not her own gripping her like iron claws. Cold sweat stuck her hair to her face, and her right hand automatically flew to her collarbone, searching for a wound she didn't bear in this timeline.

She coughed, spitting bile, and when Thranduil touched her shoulder, she shied away before she could help it, nearly falling off the cot.

"Lorna," he said, his pale eyes filled with worry, "what is it?"

There was no possible way in hell she could hope to articulate it, so she didn't try – all she could do was give_ him_ the memory, without not thought that perhaps she shouldn't inflict it upon him. She still felt sick, but there was nothing left in her stomach to bring up. Dimly she was aware that she was shivering, but she only realized she was crying when she felt cool air hit the tears on her cheeks.

What little color he had drained from his face. He opened his mouth, but apparently he was as unable to summon words as she was. Instead he grabbed her, pulling her into a hug that seemed as much to comfort him as her.

"How did I do it?" she asked, curling into a ball with her face pressed against the softness of his shirt. "How the hell did I go on from that, in that other timeline?"

"You are strong," he said, his fingers tangling in her hair, "and you are stubborn. You would not have let Von Ratched win. Such happens to Edain women – and sometimes men – in Middle-Earth, and many of them find ways to live with it, or around it. The things you endure need not define you."

Of course he'd know that. He hadn't always lived in Mirkwood, and he'd fought alongside humans. "It's easy for me to forget how old you are," she said. "How much you've seen. You look like you're twelve."

She felt the rumble of his attempt at laughter under her ear. "I do not look like I am twelve."

"Okay, maybe fifteen," she amended, drawing comfort from the sound of his heartbeat, from the knowledge that she was _awake_, that the dream was only that. No matter how horrifying, it had not happened, and it would not. Not here. "You know, when I first got here, before I knew you were Elves, I thought there were no old people because you at them all."

Now he really did laugh, his arms tightening around her. "Dilthen Ettelëa, you really are a strange little creature. And I think that is why you could survive anything."

"Don't go jinxing me. You say that and I'll get abducted by aliens who want to eat my liver."

"If aliens abduct you, you can simply throw them all out of their ship and steal it," he said, his fingers running through her hair. "Remember, Lorna, you can defend yourself here in ways you would not have been able to in that timeline. Much though I hate to admit it, you can defend yourself better than I could defend you." He really did sound displeased by it, too. Men. They really were all the same, even when they were Elves.

"Then I'll just have to defend you, too," she said, smiling against his shirt. "Then you won't need that pretty sword'v yours. Though I've got to admit, watching you practice with it is pretty hot."

"Only you, Lorna," he said, rubbing her shoulders. "Only you."

* * *

Poor Lorna. She really has had a much better life in Middle-Earth than she did in her actual first book. That dream is going to make actually meeting Von Ratched pretty damn difficult for her, too.

Title means "Communication" in Irish. You all know how it goes: reviews are my fuel.


	58. Cruinnithe

In which Minas Tirith is reached, Lorna and Thranduil meet Von Ratched, and Gollum decides he probably couldn't actually eat Sharley.

* * *

It took another week to reach Gondor, where they stationed their first garrison of soldiers. The plan was to leave a group behind every fifty miles or so, in case things went disastrously wrong with Von Ratched; only a dozen guards went with Thranduil and Lorna to Minas Tirith.

Her nerves were visible to him, because she couldn't prevaricate to save her life, but there was only so much he could do to ease them. Her unease was not without reason, especially after that dream she'd had. Logically she might know she had the power to defend herself, but in the face of that dream, of what might have been, logic had little place.

And strong though she was, Von Ratched still might outmatch her. He was much older, and had been born with his curse – he'd had far more time to hone it. Even if his strength was no greater, his precision surely would be.

They approached the city at dawn, when most of its inhabitants would surely be asleep. It had not yet been built, when last Thranduil was here, and the craftsmanship spoke of Númenorean architecture. Someone, he thought, must be constantly busy keeping moss from forming on the white walls, which were much smoother than the Edain of these later days could create.

He was not surprised when the man himself met them at the gates. Thranduil inspected him closely, and decided he could understand why the Edain found him so terrifying. He was as tall as Thranduil himself, powerfully built, his eyes so pale a grey as to be nearly white, and they caught the light of the rising sun, reflecting it like an animal's.

The aura of power about him was immense, too, so much so that it was actually somewhat unnerving. Lorna could kill a person with her mind, but here was a man who would. Mortal he might be, but he was more than a credible threat.

Lorna tensed on sight of him, but when Thranduil looked down at her, what little of her expression he could see was a surprisingly well-constructed icy mask. She'd gathered her own power about her like a cloak, as though reminding herself that it was there.

"Well," she said in English, "you sure screwed the pooch on that one. Nice job letting the whole damn world know you're here."

Thranduil shut his eyes. That certainly wasn't the greeting _he_ would have preferred to make.

"Hello, Lorna," Von Ratched said. "How nice to see your time among the Elves has made you no less vulgar."

"This is going to go well," Thranduil said in Sindarin, dry as burnt toast.

"You should have chosen a better ambassador," Von Ratched said, also in Sindarin.

Damn.

"You didn't tell me he spoke Sindarin," Thranduil said in Irish.

"How the hell was I to know he could?" Lorna shot back. "At least Irish is such an obscure language that he might not speak _it_."

From the irritated almost-blankness of the man's expression, it would appear he did not. _That_ was a relief. "I ought to invite you into my city," he said in Sindarin, and though he placed no emphasis on the 'my', he didn't need to.

"Should we actually go in?" Lorna asked in Irish.

"I do not see that we have much choice," Thranduil replied. "If he tries to ambush us, we have you."

"Why does that not comfort me?"

"Because you have a brain. He will not, I think, over-use his telekinesis for fear of destroying _his_ city, but I know you have no such consideration.

"Berk."

"Tell me I'm wrong," he said flatly.

"Oh, shut it, you."

"Thought so."

* * *

In truth, Lorna was much more reluctant to do this than she would let on, and was for once glad the elk kept her so high off the ground. Memory of her nightmare might-have-been still lingered, no matter how many times she told herself that it _hadn't_ been, and never would be. She still sometimes found herself touching her collarbone, searching for a wound that wasn't there. Facing the man who would have given it to her – and who might well _know_ that – was no easy task.

But Thranduil was right – she was stronger here than she'd been there, and she wasn't alone. This might be difficult, but it could be done, especially when she reminded herself what she would have done to Von Ratched later, in the forest. She'd had her revenge in that timeline. And if he did know what he'd done to her, she hoped he'd know _that_, too.

So she sat quite still and steady she regarded Minas Tirith, and even managed not to gawk like a tourist, though she half wanted to. This city was far larger and grander than Dale, though to her modern Earth eyes, it still didn't deserve to be called a city. She doubted more than a few thousand people lived here normally, though he'd brought many more in.

The fact that he could do so made her _really_ uneasy. It was true that she hadn't tried to do much with her telepathy, since she thought that was weird and invasive, but she doubted she could ever have done _this_.

She hoped Von Ratched wasn't going to decide to be a problem. If he did, she wasn't sure what they'd do about him.

* * *

Sharley's walk through the land toward the mountains had been uneventful, and might even have seemed dull to someone less enamored of Middle-Earth than her.

She'd avoided the few human settlements, seeing no point in potentially traumatizing anyone – she didn't need food, and it wasn't like she could actually communicate with anyone, anyway.

She was following a line of history she'd stumbled upon after leaving Beorn's house – it was the line left by Gandalf, Bilbo, and the Dwarves when they'd been going the other way six years ago. She watched their ghostly forms set down on a massive rock by ghostly eagles – fucking _huge_ eagles, actually – and listened to Bilbo get chewed out by a very relieved Dwarf named Thorin.

Thorin. She'd seen what had become of him, what he'd done and ultimately repented of at the end. She wished Middle-Earth had Jary – someone who could resurrect the deserving. Death wasn't fair, for all her father called it the ultimate democracy.

Shaking her head, she'd moved onward, through hot spring sunshine and chilly, dewy night, navigating by starlight when the moon waned down to nothing. Soon she had to climb to follow that line of history, until she reached a stand of trees that were blackened and burn-scarred. There she saw the echo of fire, of flaming pine cones lobbed from the threes by thirteen Dwarves, a wizard, and a hobbit.

The things they lobbed them at would have been right at home in some of the nasty parts of the Other (or food, in the even nastier bits). Sharley had never seen an orc or a warg before, and could have done without either – especially once she took a look to see just what orcs _were_. What she found made her have to sit on a charred stump, temporarily overtaken with horror.

Akathisia had done – and made – some terrible things during the Other's War, but even _she'd_ never managed anything like orcs. That those things were descended from creatures who had once been _Elves_… Sharley stopped looking before she could see how that was done. She didn't want to know.

She'd had no idea Middle-Earth's history hid something worse than Sauron. Shit, it could all too easily have become like the Other. From what little she'd seen of Morgoth, she knew that she, even with her immortality and her sword, would not have wanted to square off against him. Hell, of all the Other's gods, only _Azarael_ might be willing to go there, if only because he was literally Death incarnate.

One thing was for damn sure: Sauron no longer intimidated her at all. He had nothing on his former master.

Eventually she rose and continued onward, thanking whatever gods this world had that it _hadn't_ gone the way of the Other – that it was still beautiful and alive, not poisoned and cursed and half dead.

The line of the Company's history led her to a crack in the mountain – it was narrow, but she could squeeze through it. The question was, did she _want_ to?

There was nothing in this world that could actually hurt her anymore, but she'd spent the first twenty-five years of her life as a mortal human, and the instinct for self-preservation lingered. Plus, keen though her eyesight was, she couldn't see in total darkness, though she could sense everything around her.

Screw it. If she was going to deal with Sauron, she could handle the darkness. Into it she plunged, and wondered just what she would find – or what would find _her_.

* * *

Lorna, though not sanguine, had at least been mostly cool and controlled, but when they were actually near Von Ratched, she was dismayed that her temper spiked. Memory of that dream was still far too fresh, and as soon as she was close enough, her fingers itched to throttle him, adrenaline dumping into her system like a flash flood. It was enough to make her skin heat and prickle, muscles tensing as her every instinct spoiled for a fight. He could be a massive problem for them, but not if she killed him first.

_You're the one who's meant to kill Thorvald_, she thought. _You don't actually_ need _him._

It was true, and it made the thought of reaching out with her telekinesis and snapping his neck _far_ too tempting. The only thing that stayed her metaphorical hand was the fact that she didn't actually know where the weapon she needed to kill Thorvald with was, or even _what_ it was. Von Ratched didn't seem the type to have kept a sword, before he'd come to Middle-Earth.

_Peace, Lorna_, Thranduil sent her. _Not yet_. He was trying to soothe her, but it wasn't working, for she could feel his own wrath. Unlike her, his anger ran cold, and was all the more dangerous for it, for he could be calculating in ways she could not.

Still, when they passed Von Ratched, it was all she could do not to aim a kick at his head. Once their bullshit meeting was over, she was going to need a drink. All the drinks.

How much did he know, of what might have been? Just how much had he seen? Though that he too might know what he'd done to her was almost unendurable, because never in her life had she felt so weak, not even when he'd invaded her mind in this timeline. Over the course of her life, Lorna had got the ever-loving shit beat out of her during fights, been slashed with broken bottles, and even stabbed in the thigh, and none of that had come close to making her feel like Von Ratched would have, had Middle-Earth not sucked them in.

So yes, she was angry, because anger was better than being utterly freaked out. Fear was a paralytic, but anger could be useful for all kinds of things.

Once they were through the gate, she refused to look back at the bastard – which was easy enough, as there was more than enough to look at in front of her.

This lowest ring of the city looked like one giant market, with permanent shops as well as stalls filled with all sorts of things – tools, cookware, bolts of fabric, you name it. The apothecary directly across from them smelled strongly of herbs, though it didn't quite manage to mask the faint aroma of sewage. Unlike Dale, Minas Tirith didn't seem to sit near any major waterway, so who knew where its sewage went – or if the water was safe to drink. Ick.

Surely the market couldn't always be this crowded with stalls, either; the out-of-towners must have set up in here, too. The stalls actually looked to be in better shape than the permanent structures, some of which were definitely the worse for wear after the storm, with broken windows and one partially collapsed roof.

"Now what?" she asked in Irish.

"Now we see where Von Ratched has set himself up in the food chain," Thranduil replied. "Just how he has been hiding himself all this time. Because hide, I am sure, he has."

* * *

Well, this was irritating, but Von Ratched could work with it. He stood aside to let the group of Elves past, all of whom either looked curious, disdainful, nervous, or some combination of the three.

He had known the Elvenking would be a threat – he was, after all, several thousand years old, and an Elf. Even with having spoken to Lorna recently, however, Von Ratched had not counted on her posing a major problem. The fact that she was obviously in some manner of relationship with Thranduil didn't help at all, though he did wonder just how _that_ had come about. It would also explain why her mind was so impregnable – if she had Elvish magic to aid her natural telepathy, Von Ratched had little hope of sneaking his way in, undetected or not.

Several very nervous grooms appeared to take the Elves' horses, though none dared try to herd the elk. The Elvenking said something to it, and the creature trotted off after them with no further urging. The Elf was every inch as tall as Von Ratched himself, and radiated a kind and level of power so alien that it grated like steel wool on wire. A dark part of Von Ratched – a part that, he suspected, was much like Thorvald – wanted to stop Thranduil's heart, simply because he could. Unlike Thorvald, however, he actually had common sense, so he settled for leading the odd pair through the city, making no attempt to accommodate Lorna's sorter stride. If she was irritated to the point of distraction, she'd create less of a struggle.

The weight of Thranduil's mind pressed against his defenses, and Von Ratched didn't think it was something the Elf was doing deliberately. He was simply so very old, with thousands of years' worth of memories stored in his brain. It was weirdly oppressive, and Von Ratched didn't want to think about what it would be like to be in a room full of the damn creatures.

The city was beginning to stir by the time they reached the fourth level, and was downright bustling when they made it to the council chambers on the sixth. He made sure that none noticed the Elves, for he didn't want to deal with any more variables than he had to just yet. Ecthelion and Denethor were both safely occupied for the moment; he could speak with his guests uninterrupted.

"Are you gonna feed us, or what?" Lorna demanded.

Perhaps that wasn't going to be such a good thing after all.

* * *

There was a surprising amount of light inside this cave. It was weak and watery, but it spoke of a hole somewhere in the roof. Unsurprisingly, it smelled of damp and moss and mildew, and not far in Sharley discovered some amazingly huge mushrooms.

_"Wonder what would happen if someone ate one of those,"_ Jimmy said.

_"I wish Tanya was here,"_ Layla said. _"She'd do it."_

_"She'd eat the whole damn patch,"_ Kurt snorted.

"Shh," Sharley said. There was someone else down here – someone who, but the lines of history, had been here a very, very long time. What in this world could live so long, without being an Elf?

She crept forward, silent as a breeze, over damp, slimy rock. The light was dimmer in here, but still enough to allow her to see.

At the end of the tunnel there was a lake, dark and mirror-smooth, with a tiny island at its very center. And on that island sat the strangest creature she'd yet seen outside of the Other.

It was child-sized, though it definitely wasn't a child of any sort she'd ever seen – skeletal and hairless, its skin so leeched of color it was nearly as grey as a zombie's. It wore only some sort of diaper-like cloth underwear, and it was not, by the sound of it, happy. It muttered to itself, voice somehow both high and harsh, occasionally making a sound very much like a cat gacking up a hairball.

_"What in the actually flying fuck is_ that _thing?"_ Jimmy said.

_"It's a monster,"_ Kurt said. _"Put it out of its misery."_

Sharley ignored him, still creeping forward, reading the creature's Time. It really _had_ been here a long time, nearly five hundred years, but what was it?

Back she went, and further still, following the creature's history back out into the light, all the way to a lazy, sunny day beside a riverbank. The thing – a male, she now realized – looked very different, healthy and whole, with a full head of curly hair a skin slightly pink from the sun.

His cousin found something in the river's muck – a ring.

_The_ Ring.

Holy shit.

She hurried forward again, seeking the place where his history joined the Company's, and sure enough, there was Bilbo, just randomly picking the damn thing off the ground. Then the creature – Sméagol, his name was, or had been – freaking right the fuck out, chasing Bilbo with murder in those creepily huge eyes.

"No wonder he's so upset," she muttered.

Quietly though she spoke, the babbling on the island stopped. The guttural voice growled something, his head whipping around, but he didn't see her at first.

"Sméagol," Sharley said, stepping into what little light there was. "I won't hurt you." She knew he couldn't understand her words, but hopefully he could read her intent in her tone.

He let out a phlegmatic, very feline hiss, but he didn't move even when she approached the edge of the lake. The hostility eased a fraction from his expression, replaced by confusion. No doubt he was wondering what the hell she was doing all the way down here. It was, really, a damn good question. Maybe he was the answer.

Gollum didn't know how long it had been since the Baggins-thief made off with the Precious. All he _did_ know was that each second had been agony to them, uninterrupted until now.

_What_ had found them? It wasn't a goblin or an Elf, but it wasn't one of the Big Folk either, for no matter how hard he listened, he didn't hear any draw of breath, save for when it spoke.

They couldn't understand its words, but one of them, _Sméagol_, they thought they recognized. It wasn't hostile, oh no, but it was very tall, and they could see a sword strapped to its back, so they probably couldn't eat it.

"Sméagol," it said again, beckoning them with one bone-white hand, and before they knew what they were doing, they'd climbed into their little boat and started paddling across the lake.

What were they doing? Why couldn't they help themselves? What if_ it_ meant to eat _them_?

They doubted it, though. What didn't breathe wouldn't eat. Maybe, just maybe, it would lead them to the Precious.

* * *

Katje had mostly ignored the crafting of the guns, but today the Dwarves were testing their various attempts at creating gunpowder, and even she couldn't miss a good explosion.

Wisely, they did it outside, under the warm spring sun. This must be their practice yard, for various wooden and straw dummies had been moved off to the side.

One end was lined with long tables, on which were a row of small jars, each with a neatly-written label attached. Each also had a Dwarf standing behind it, and she was reminded forcefully of science fairs at school.

Geezer, followed by the ever-faithful Arandur, took a pinch from the first, dropping it onto a stone disk and carrying the disk a good six yards away. Arandur handed him a stick with a flaming wick on the end, and he stood back to touch it to the powder.

_BOOM_

Katje winced, rubbing her ringing ears. How could such a tiny amount produce such a large explosion?

Geezer shook his head. "Okay, that's the _opposite_ of what we want," he said. ""Would you want that goin' off next to your face?"

When Arandur translated that, the Dwarves winced.

"Though so. Gunpowder ain't supposed to explode like that if you actually wanna use it for its intended purpose. Now, are any of yours _not_ gonna do that?"

They all exchanged sheepish looks, and shook their heads.

_Oops_, Katje thought.

* * *

This was every bit as awkward as Lorna had expected, and it wasn't helped by the fact that her fists were clenched so tightly her nails drew blood from her palms. The longer Von Ratched spoke, the harder it was for her to keep herself from throttling him. He was so unthinkingly _arrogant_ when he spoke of all he had done here, and why.

Thranduil was just as angry, but only she'd be able to tell. His face was a perfect porcelain mask, his eyes inscrutable. She really, really envied him that ability.

"All right, so where's this thing I need to kill Thorvald with?" she asked, just wanting to get this damn thing over with.

"I can hardly tell you that," Von Ratched said, folding his hands on the table.

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Because once you have it, you'll try to kill me."

He had her there, the bastard – and worse, it looked like he knew it. But then, he'd dug through her mind, too; he probably knew more about her than she would ever like.

"Oh, fuck off," she muttered.

"Ná ardú dó, strainséir beag," Thranduil said. _Do not rise to it, little stranger._

"Cineál ar deacair gan. Ba mhaith liom a bain a aghaidh le bríce."_ Kind of hard not to. I want to smash his face in with a brick._

"Nach bhfuil tú an ceann amháin , ach nach bhfuil an rogha fós. Idir an dá linn, is féidir linn ar a laghad gcuirfear air ag teanga nach bhfuil sé a thuiscint ag labhairt." _You are not the only one, but that is not an option yet. Meanwhile, we can at least aggravate him by speaking a language he does not understand._

Lorna tried not to laugh, and failed. Von Ratched didn't scowl at her, but it looked like he wanted to.

"I need some food and a goddamn bath," she said in English. "I think we've said all there is to say, for now."

She didn't think she imagined his subtle look of relief. "The city has bath houses," he said. "I will have rooms found for you."

Lorna didn't look at Thranduil, but she didn't need to. "Am folctha," she said. "Am folctha _fhás suas._" _Bath time_. Grown-up _bath time._

He snorted before he could help it.

* * *

Because having those three in one city is _totally_ going to end well. Though probably not as poorly as Sharley taking Gollum out through to the other side of the mountains.

Title means "Meetings" in Irish. As always, your reviews are my food. Feed me. Om nom. There will, naturally, be an offering of "grown-up bath time" in _Ettelëa Interludes_ fairly soon.


	59. Iontaobhas

In which Sharley and Gollum brave the goblins' caves, Ratiri gets a metaphorical bomb dropped on him, Von Ratched discovers something unfortunate, and Lorna and Thranduil have a very long overdue talk.

* * *

These caverns were creepy as fuck.

They'd obviously once housed a hell of a lot of people, but they were dead empty now, filled with crazed, half-destroyed wooden walkways that looked like they'd been pretty rickety to begin with. There was just enough light for Sharley to make it out, but there wouldn't be if she went much further.

Well, they weren't _quite_ empty. The further she went, the more skeletons she found, too small to be adult humans – goblins, according to the history-line. Nice. The Dwarves and Bilbo – oh, and Gandalf, there he was – had had one hell of a time getting out of here, hadn't they?

She was rather surprised that Sméagol was still with her – hell she was surprised he'd followed her at all. She couldn't help but pity him, for all he was a murderer; he'd very obviously paid a heavy price for it, turned into a creature nearly as unnatural as she was. There was nothing that could be done about her, but maybe, just maybe, something could help him. _What_, she couldn't yet see, but he wasn't going to find it in that cave.

They left the last of the light behind, and she was forced to use the Time-lines to navigate, following where they bent around solid objects. Sméagol had no such restriction; when they reached a tangled wreck of fallen platforms, he scrambled up it like a spider, with an agility she honestly envied. Bony though she was, Sharley was not a light woman, and it took her a while to locate an area that would actually sustain her weight.

Sméagol muttered to himself, and the voices muttered to each other, and Sharley was beginning to regret her impulse to come here. Childhood and adolescence on Jary's ship had left her good at climbing things, but she'd been smaller, and ropes and spars were very different than shifting, half-rotten wood.

_"This was not one of your better ideas, Sharley,_" Kurt said. _"Especially because there's something else still alive up ahead. Leftover goblins, probably."_

Well, that she could deal with. She just had to make sure she didn't accidentally kill Sméagol in the process.

* * *

Thranduil was rather surprised to find that the "spring festival" Von Ratched had planted in many minds actually happened. When he and Lorna emerged from the bathhouse, clean and then some, Minas Tirith had come alive. Edain, everywhere, selling or buying, eating and, early though it was, often drinking.

He had to admit, at least to himself, that he was at something of a loss. They'd come to stop Von Ratched, but the damage had already been done, and it was fortunately far less than they had feared. He dreaded the thought of having to, as Lorna might put it, baby-sit the damned man, but they couldn't leave him to create mischief on his own. Thranduil had no desire to linger in Minas Tirith, but neither did he want to take the bastard back to the Woodland Realm.

They needed to find whatever weapon Lorna had to use against Thorvald, and then just kill Von Ratched. Thranduil could think of no other solution.

Meanwhile, he and Lorna needed to meet with Ecthelion, for form's sake. That would be much easier if he had any idea just what in Eru's name Von Ratched might have done to the Steward's mind to explain all this.

"So how does this work?" Lorna asked, surveying the sea of people below. "Do I have to say anything, or can I sit there and just look ornamental?"

"Well, you must say _something_, lest Ecthelion and his son think you are mute," he said dryly.

"Would it be so bad if I was?" she asked, offended on behalf of actual mute people.

"They would take it as such," Thranduil said, leading her through the throng. It was rather amusing to watch the Edain part like a wave before them, turning startled glances on the pair. He doubted Von Ratched had implanted any expectation of an Elvish visit in any of their minds.

"Then they're dicks. Nothing wrong with people who can't speak."

"You're adorable when you're offended."

"Oh, stuff it. I'm serious."

"I know you are. And yes, you must say something, but let it be…you." He had no doubt at all it would be entertaining, and thus make this less excruciatingly dull. The Steward was bound by convention to invite them to dinner, which Thranduil did not look forward to. He enjoyed Bard's entertainments because he _liked_ Bard, and the Edain of Dale were a rather saltier lot than those of Gondor. The remnants of Númenor's more noble society were still alive and well in Gondor, weighted with dignity, and, he could tell already, dreadfully boring. There was more than one reason he avoided his fellow Elven realms – none of them knew how to properly enjoy themselves. This would be a structured, stately affair that he himself would have to go along with, at least up to a point, but Lorna had no such restrictions – not that she would have held to them if she had.

She'd tried to explain the republic of her nation before, but he hadn't really understood, and he still didn't. From all he'd learned of Ireland's history with England, he certainly couldn't _blame_ them for revolting – a thousand years of oppression would drive anyone to it, mortal or immortal – but what they had set up in place of their monarchy made little sense to him.

It did, however, mean Lorna was by nature unimpressed by titles. A person earned her respect based on who they were, not what family or position they had been born to. It had maddened him at first, partly because he was so unused to it, but he had grown to appreciate it even before their unorthodox marriage. There were not many who dared, as she might put it, call bullshit on him, and annoying though it had been, it was also oddly refreshing. She still did, even with the change in their relationship, but now at least he got to get all her clothes off afterward.

Never, ever would he admit that he'd thought about that a time or two long before their first night of drunken debauchery. He still didn't know _why_, either. Lorna was pretty in her own slightly wild way, but hardly the type to inflame anyone's desire. There was something almost fey about her, a subtle aura that said 'don't touch me', but he'd want to well before he actually had.

Terrible as it was, he thought he could understand what had drawn Von Ratched to her in that other timeline, quite besides her telepathy. No, Lorna wasn't beautiful, but there was something weirdly compelling about her that wouldn't have existed if she _had_ been beautiful. If Von Ratched had held her prisoner long enough, Thranduil didn't wonder at his later obsession.

Not that he was _ever_ going to tell Lorna that. All it would do was unsettle her, which she didn't need right now. At least it seemed unlikely in this timeline, as circumstances were quite different – in the Institute, Von Ratched had held all the power, but he certainly didn't here. Lorna was a legitimate threat to him, and he was not a stupid man. He wouldn't take a risk like that.

Thranduil looked down at her, and found her surveying the crowd with interest. "Let us unsettle people, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, offering her his arm.

She grinned. "Sounds like a plan," she said, looping her arm through his.

* * *

For a place that got so cold in the winter, Dale was certainly damn hot in summer.

Ratiri, child of Scotland that he was, wasn't equipped to handle heat, and of course air conditioning wasn't even a thought here. Shorts and T-shirts were likewise unheard-of, and he had no idea how these people could function while wearing so much clothing.

He tore the sleeves off one of his tunics, which made him feel a little like a nerdier version of Daryl from _The Walking Dead_, and tried to ignore the number of appreciative stares he got from the various women (and a one or two men) of Dale. He just wanted to word, not fend off offers of dinner with ulterior motives.

At least a number of his trainees seemed, if not oblivious, just not distracted – and Sigrid, pragmatic creature that she was, tended to come down hard on anyone who didn't pay attention. By now he'd learned enough Westron to discover the loss of Esgaroth – and many of its people – combined with the later battle had scarred her deeply, and left her determined to find ways to save lives wherever possible.

He couldn't blame her. That was a hell of a thing to witness at any age, but at fifteen? That probably would have broken him.

She and the other trainees were making bandages one afternoon when Bard, trailed by Arandur, cornered him outside. The man's face was so grim and serious that Ratiri wondered who had died.

"What are your intentions toward my daughter?" he asked.

It took Ratiri a moment to work that out, and when he had, he choked on his own spit. "_What?!_" he said in English. "Bard, no intent," he tried in Westron. "She is _twenty_."

Bard blinked – clearly, that was not the response he had been expecting. "So?"

"So I am thirty-six. That is just _wrong_."

"It is?" Bard asked, clearly nonplussed.

"Where I am from, yes. It happen, but it is not – encouraged?" He didn't know the Westron for 'encouraged', so he looked to Arandur for translation.

Weirdly, Bard actually looked somewhat approving. "King Thranduil is three thousand years older than Lorna," he pointed out. "I could do much worse for a son-in-law than you." He left Ratiri to stare at his retreating back, utterly flabbergasted. That was just one more reminder that this was a _very_ different world.

* * *

Sharley was halfway through the caves when she saw light – firelight, to be precise. Remnants of the formerly huge goblin population still survived, lurking deep within their caverns.

Sméagol hissed at the orange glow, but he didn't retreat – not even when she drew her sword. Still he followed as she made her silent way along the remnants of the catwalks, following the Company's history. That really _had_ been an impressive fight, and the youngest, Kili, had obviously been enjoying himself, even if no one else had. She watched their ghostly forms pass by her, racing for the exit that was still quite far away from here.

There was noise ahead now; voices, many of them, and she didn't need to understand them to know they were arguing. Goblins, she'd seen, were a race apart from orcs, but she hadn't yet found their origins. They were smaller, and on the whole rather less intelligent – not that that was saying a great deal, since what she'd seen of orcs in their history suggested most of them weren't that bright, either. She'd see for herself soon enough.

* * *

Von Ratched was actually mildly disturbed, which was rather less than the few scandalized people who left the bathhouse.

He wasn't surprised some of the city's guests would use the baths for a less than orthodox purpose. He _was_, however, surprised by who those guests _were_ – hence his disturbance. He hadn't expected Lorna's relationship with the King of the damned Wood-Elves to have such an enthusiastically physical component, but enthusiastic it was. Audibly so. He doubted they realized just how well echoes carried in there – though he doubted they'd care.

Well. _This_ was unexpected. Naturally, he wondered how he could use it to his advantage.

They'd have to meet with the Steward tonight, for appearance's sake, which would leave him with a few hours of free time to make plans. Or so he hoped.

Something felt _wrong_ to him – it was like an itch, far back in his brain. Von Ratched hadn't lived this long by ignoring his instincts, so he sat in his rooms and let his mind wander.

_There was nothing unduly odd in the crowd; it was the usual sort of excitement found at fairs and festivals, tainted only by some lingering trauma from the storm. The few Elves in the city stood out like beacons, and their minds he did not dare touch yet._

_All within the city was as it should be, more or less. His mind traveled outward, through the eyes of those still outside the gate, seeking the source of his unease with every ounce of concentration he had._

_Not until he tapped his people in Rohan did he find it: one young Rider huddled in a dell, watching storm clouds mass with unnatural speed – some purple, some yellow, some black as night._

_What._

_His own storm had spent itself, and he'd done nothing to stir up a new one, so where the hell had this come from?_

_He sought another pair of eyes, and another, and then –_

_Oh. Wonderful._

_Aelis, on the one occasion he'd met her, had disconcerted him, and he had not at all been pleased by the idea of more of her people turning up. He was even less pleased to actually see them._

_They were ranged across the green plains of Rohan, thousands of them, though where they had come from, he didn't know. They all looked nearly as disgusting as Aelis herself, pallid and bloody-eyed, and part of him wished he could study the disease that had killed them. Clearly it had been some manner of hemorrhagic fever, and it had to have been fast, for there was little evidence of wasting._

Focus, _he told himself._

_If they were here, that had to mean Thorvald was indeed on his way._

_This day just got worse and worse._

* * *

Lorna quickly decided that while Minas Tirith was nice, she wouldn't want to live here.

It wasn't just the B.O. problem that came with any large gathering of humans in Middle-Earth, though that certainly didn't help. The sewage smell she'd noticed earlier came from what passed for the public toilets, no doubt over-worked from all the visitors. She still had yet to figure out where it went, so she wasn't going to drink anything that didn't have an alcohol content. Not that that was any great hardship for her.

Everything in it was also too _big_. The people of Gondor seemed, on the average, to be taller than those of Dale, or even many on Earth, so the buildings and even furniture made her feel smaller than she already was. _That_ just irritated her, but at least Thranduil was good at getting the crowds out of the way before anyone could step on her. The people of Gondor were mostly tall, but he was _really_ tall, and for once she didn't mind.

The city might look better on a purely architectural level, but even with all these extra people, it seemed…duller, somehow. It had what a more articulate person might call gravitas, but that somehow made it seem more remote, and weirdly chilly. No, she wouldn't want to live here, no matter how beautiful it was – or how nice the bath houses.

"What are you thinking?" Thranduil asked in Sindarin.

"That I want to go home. As nice as all this sunshine is, I'm starting to miss the caves." And wasn't _that_ Strange. Lorna had never been a homebody, since she'd rarely had anything like a real home – not until she was twenty-eight and lived with her half-sister.

He paused, looking down at her, ignoring the milling crowd. "Do you truly think of the halls as home?"

She was kind of amazed he felt the need to ask that question. "_Duh_," she said. "You're there. Our children are there, whenever it'll be safe to let them actually grow into children. How often do I have to tell you I love you, before you'll actually believe it?" She'd had no idea at all he had any doubts about that, and she wondered _why_.

"That is a discussion best held in private," he said. "For now, let us just say that you are not the only one who had nightmares."

Well, _that_ was unsettling. She had to lay whatever fears he had to rest, and then poke him for not saying anything of them before now. If she'd known of his doubts, she would have corrected them.

Maybe she should have been actually saying the words more often, but that wasn't an easy thing for her to do, and it wasn't like he'd been any better about it. She didn't actually _need_ to hear it; she just knew. It bugged her a little that Thranduil didn't, but she wouldn't let it bug her too much until she knew the reason why. He never did or felt anything without _some_ kind of reason.

"Thranduil, I want you to do me a favor, okay?" she said. "If you ever doubt me on anything like that, _tell me._ I don't want you to have to wander around like that, because believe it or not, I actually _do_ love you, even if I'm crap at saying so. I don't want you to feel like you have to worry about that, on top of everything else."

The trace of incredulity in his eyes damn near broke her heart. No matter how annoyed with him she could get, she'd never have wanted to cause him pain.

"Screw wandering," she said. "I think this is a discussion we need to have now. Let's go find our room."

* * *

Goblins, Sharley thought, really were gross.

She observed them from a distance, unseen, Sméagol silent beside her. They seemed like such a waste of life, though she felt kind of shitty for thinking so. In the Other, the undead in their various forms outnumbered the living, so all life, no matter how nasty, was sort of a precious commodity.

How to handle this…she ought to just kill them all, but she was oddly reluctant to do it, and _that_ made no sense, since they'd surely kill _her_, if you, now, that was actually possible. They were probably needed in some way she couldn't yet see, so no mass death for them.

That did, however, leave her with a bit of a problem. When it came to using the sword as an actual weapon, she wasn't very good at it. It could cut through anything, but only if it actually hit its target, and even from a distance, she could see the goblins were almost all much shorter than her. This was going to be like some severely fucked-up version of baseball, with heads for balls.

She glanced down at Sméagol. He'd survived in these caverns for centuries, and had actually _eaten_ goblins – he'd probably be fine, especially if they were all busy attacking her. She felt oddly protective of the fucked-up little creature, which made her think that he too had some part to play that she couldn't yet see.

"Let's do this," she said, and strode forward into the light.

* * *

The suite Von Ratched had assigned Lorna and Thranduil – well, probably just Thranduil – were appropriately fancy, probably reserved for visiting dignitaries. The bed was large, a canopy with dark tapestry curtains and equally dark oak headboard, footboard, and posts carved with symbols she couldn't read.

She sat on it, her feet predictably dangling a good foot off the ground. "All right, allanah," she said, "talk to me. I'd no idea you had any worries about that."

He sat facing her, looking as uncomfortable as a cat in a rainstorm. "I know you, Lorna," he said. "I know how reluctant you are to set down roots anywhere."

Okay, that actually did make sense – to a point. "You know who I _was_, Thranduil," she said, as close to gently as she possibly could. "In case you hadn't noticed, I've done a bit'v growing since I came to Middle-Earth. You're right – ten months ago, I probably would've split in a heartbeat, but humans change. And if you know me as well as you think you do, you'll know that when I _do_ love something, I'm in it for the duration."

He looked away, eyes trained on the large, sunny window without actually seeing it. "I know that, in my mind," he said, "but in my heart…my dreams of late have made me wonder. Lorna, when first we properly met, I raped your mind, and it very nearly killed you. You were terrified of me for weeks afterward, and I know you must have wanted to kill me. In my dreams, we are on our way back to the halls from Dale, but when your nose bleeds, I cannot stop it. I watch you die in the snow, and there is nothing I can do."

Now he looked at her again. "You have no reason at all to love me, Lorna, and very great cause to hate me. And I fear that one day, something will make you realize it."

Jesus. Well, when he put it _that_ way….

Lorna really hadn't let herself think much about the early, dark days of their association. She really _had_ been terrified of him, and would happily have seen him dead, especially when Gandalf told her she was dying because of what he'd done to her. And she knew full well that the only reason Thranduil had cared at the time was because he wanted the rest of what was in her head. His current fears were not without justification.

What the hell could she say to that? Part of it was true; she _did_ have very great cause to hate him, if she wanted to. But he was wrong on the other count.

"Yeah, okay, when we first met, things were shitty," she said, taking his hand. "_Really_ shitty, but you're wrong – I've got plenty'v reasons to love you, not least'v which is the fact that I know you love me. I trust that, and I trust you, and you know that's not something I do lightly. I know you'd never hurt me, and that you'd eviscerate anything that tried, if I didn't get to it first. I need you to trust that I'll never, ever leave you by choice. If I'm stuck going alone with Von Ratched, I'll still come back. Sure, you can be kind'v a dick, but you're _my_ dick. And that was a really poor choice'v words."

It drew a smile from him, at least. "I still cannot help but fear that one day you will come to your senses, and I will wake to find you gone."

Lorna gave his hand a squeeze. "Thranduil, if you ever wake and I'm not there, I'm either taking a piss, or something's actually succeeded at kidnapping me, in which case I'll turn up covered in someone else's blood. Even if you doubt everything else in the entire damn world, never doubt that. Thanks to Sharley, you don't even need to worry about me getting old and dying on you."

He smiled again, but there was a tinge of both sadness and bitterness. "Good things in my life do not have a habit of lasting," he said.

"They never have in mine, either," she pointed out. "Shit, I barely had Liam for two years, and losing him damn near killed me, but I don't regret our time together. Even if I'd known two years was we'd have, I wouldn't've loved him any less. You could get hit on the head with a meteor tomorrow and I'd still be glad I had you as long as I did. I don't want you hating yourself so much that you can't believe that."

To that he said nothing – instead he pulled her onto his lap, resting his chin on top of her head. "I do not know that I will really stop fearing it," he said.

"Then I'll just have to prove you wrong every day until you do," she said, wrapping her arms around him. "You're stuck with me whether you like it or not, so you'd best like it."

"I do, Dilthen Ettelëa. I would follow you into the Void."

"Let's hope it doesn't come to that. Any place called the Void can't be comfortable, and I bet the view sucks."

His deep laugh rumbled beneath her ear.

* * *

Well, they had to discuss that sooner or later, because seriously, their relationship does not have a good foundation. Mind-rape and a drunken hookup aren't exactly ideal beginnings for any kind of relationship, but they love each other for honest reasons, and it's not like either were stable, normal people to begin with. They've both had to work to get where they are, which Lorna recognizes, even if Thranduil doesn't yet. On a subconscious level, he still doesn't understand how she could forgive him, let alone love him, because he really _did_ almost kill her. What he doesn't realize is that she doesn't love him because she forgave him – she forgave him because he loves him. And Lorna is not at all a forgiving person – she can carry a grudge until the end of time, as Von Ratched found out in the other universe.

Title means "Trust" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with love and rainbows. I love rainbows. Gimme rainbows.


	60. Eagla agus Dóchas

In which Sharley and Gollum reach daylight (sort of), Katje decides her curse isn't actually that bad after all (and is happy), and Lorna and Thranduil realize Von Ratched is a lot more dangerous than either of them suspected (and still don't know just _how_ dangerous).

* * *

When Lorna and Thranduil emerged from their rooms, it was to find the sky to the southeast black with storm clouds. Even at this distance, they could hear the rumble of thunder.

Lorna sighed. "What's that idiot gone and done _now_?" she muttered.

"I do not know," Thranduil said, "but it would be best to find out." In truth, he doubted this was Von Ratched's doing at all; she might call him idiot, but the man wasn't stupid. Someone or some_thing_ else was responsible this time around. And he did not want to know what.

"Great," Lorna said. "Just brilliant. Well, at least it means we can probably get out of dinner."

"A peculiar bright side, but a bright side nonetheless," he deadpanned. "Much as I do not want to, we ought to find Von Ratched. He may have some idea just what is going on."

"He'd better, or he's worse than useless. As soon as I find the thing I've got to kill Thorvald with, I'm offing the bastard. He's a complication nobody needs."

Thranduil had to agree with her, though he doubted it would be that simple, if only because nothing else had been so far. "The question right now is, where _is_ he? Other than likely somewhere he shouldn't be."

Lorna smirked. "I bet I can find him. He's the only other telepathic human in the city – it can't be _that_ hard. Let's wreck his day."

* * *

Sharley had to admit it: she was lost. _Really_ fucking lost.

The goblins who hadn't been smart enough to run away were dead, but in the process of making the dead ones dead, she'd lost the thread of the Company's history. Now she was left hunting the cavern's Time, searching for a way out. And she was pretty sure Sméagol was laughing at her.

_"Oh, you'll be just great against Sauron,"_ Kurt said witheringly. _"He's an immortal being almost as old as Time, and you're lost in a goddamn cave."_

She ignored him, because once you started arguing with Kurt, there went your entire day, but he had a point. She definitely was not very good at this whole 'technically a deity' thing – she could make things dead, but that was about it. _Anybody_ could do that, if not on the same scale.

But there was nothing to be done about it now. All she could do was pick her way along in the dark, following the gleaming threads of Time, until something in the air stopped her dead in her tracks. "Oh,_ what_?" she said aloud, the words echoing back at her several times.

Somebody had opened a Door to the Other, and it obviously wasn't her. Odds were very few that _that_ meant anything good. "Screw this." She couldn't waste any more time wandering around like a blind dumbass, so she really hoped nobody was wandering around the outside of the mountain. If they were, they were in for a nasty shock.

Erosion took ages, but ages were a relative thing for Sharley. This was going to make everything capable of noticing sit up again, but whatever. She hunted down the Time-lines she needed, which was not a swift process, gathering them together.

She'd often thought that Time ought to make a noise when she fiddled with its threads, that it should sound like some kind of stringed instrument. It didn't, but the feel of it was so much better, because it was something she truly _could_ feel.

_The Misty Mountains had been birthed in violence, not through natural phenomena but a war between Arda's gods. She felt the heat of the magma called forth by Morgoth – wow, seriously, fuck that guy – boiling up and spewing through the stone like blazing rivers. Sulfur stung in her sinuses, harsh and grating, but she couldn't sneeze anymore._

_Only now did she realize how young Middle-Earth was – not even a full thirty thousand years. It hadn't yet had time to grow weary like Earth, or even like the Other, which had formed and latched onto Earth some half a million years ago. In geological time, Middle-Earth wasn't even a fetus yet._

_Well, it was getting some extra Time dumped into it now. Sharley ordered the threads wrapped around her fingers, and pulled._

The massive amounts of dust from such rapid erosion were inevitable, but since she didn't breathe, it hardly bothered her. She did worry about Sméagol, though, who didn't even have a shirt to use as a dust mask.

Sure enough, she heard him coughing, and he made that horrible gacking noise when dim moonlight flooded the suddenly open chamber. To her eyes it was a relief, but his displeasure was extremely obvious. She didn't need to understand him to know he was swearing, and she had an unfortunate suspicion that he was probably done following her. His hatred of the sky ran old and deep, and it was possible he wasn't yet ready to brave it even to find the Ring. If the thing was like a drug to him, his withdrawal might not be bad enough to drive him into the world to search for it.

Still, she had to try. "Sméagol," she said, stepping out into the open air. "Sméagol, come with me."

To her surprise, he actually did, creeping on all fours like an animal. Though the moon was barely a sliver, he still squinted and scowled at it.

_"Because_ this _is gonna end well,"_ Jimmy snorted.

_"You never know,"_ Layla said. _"It might. Something has to, sooner or later."_

_"Good point,"_ Sinsemilla said. _"Let's go, Sharley. He probably can't handle traveling in daylight, and we've got ground to cover."_

* * *

Eventually, the gunpowder situation sorted itself out. Unfortunately, some of the ingredients needed to make it were severely finite, which was where Katje came in.

She hadn't advertised her curse since she came to Middle-Earth, though she'd quietly used it a few times. Nobody who had been through the Institute would voluntarily make their curse known without good reason. Only a very few knew of it now – or had.

In theory, she could turn anything into anything else. In practice, it only worked if she'd seen and touched the thing, and even then it only properly succeeded in turning into what she wanted maybe half the time. She'd been practicing, but she was a hell of a long way from perfect.

So when Geezer first gave her a pinch of gunpowder, she messed with it in secret, running through half a dozen wrong results before she actually got it right – and even then, she made him test it first, to make sure it was truly going to work. When he did, he went to the Dwarves, and took her with him.

Katje was not the sort of person who was easily unnerved, but her curse had thus far brought her nothing but trouble. Outwardly she could project an air of total calm, but her gut was twisting.

At least she wasn't facing too many people – just Dain and his council, though really, that was more than enough, especially in such a huge chamber. At least they were curious, rather than hostile.

"We need a shitload of shale," Geezer said, mostly in Westron. "And an equally large place to store a shitload of gunpowder. Katje'll make it."

Arandur translated the English bits, and Dain looked at her with interest. "How?"

"Is my curse," she said, in careful Westron. "Watch."

Geezer handed her a lump of rock, which she turned over in her hands, focusing. Even now, she didn't really understand how her curse actually _worked_ – it just did, through instinct she couldn't hoe to explain in any language. That instinct allowed her curse to flow, to smooth its way through her fingers and into the rock, shifting its component matter into something entirely different. She was left, to her relief, with a handful of black powder, rather than a sock (which had happened more than once).

Geezer held out a wooden bowl, and she let the powder slip through her fingers. The Dwarves all stared when he brought it to them, and okay, _that_ felt rather nice. It wasn't often she actually felt good about her curse.

"Can you do that with anything?" Dain asked.

"Only sometime. I not good yet," she said, struggling with the Westron. Honestly, it was even worse to learn than English.

"It tires her. No gold," Geezer said firmly. "We need this."

Dain wasn't the only Dwarf who looked disappointed, but at least none of them pressed the issue. "You will get shale. Mahal knows we've got plenty of it."

Katje was surprised at how pleased that made her. Transfiguring such a large amount as would be needed was going to totally drain her, but this was something that only she could do. Anyone could do the various other tasks she'd been performing, but nobody else could do this. It wasn't often that she felt truly _needed_, and she found that she liked it.

* * *

Von Ratched did indeed prove criminally easy to find, and Lorna took no small amount of pleasure in hammering on his door. He looked rather irate when he opened it, and even more annoyed when he saw who his visitors were.

"What did you do?" she demanded without preamble.

"_I_ did nothing," he said, with more than a little asperity. "I might ask the same of you."

"Only thing I've done today is my husband," she retorted, and didn't miss Thranduil's quiet snort. "If it wasn't you or me, what was it?"

"Come in, both of you," Von Ratched sighed. "It was the rest of Aelis's contemporaries."

"How do you know?" Thranduil asked, as they stepped inside. Von Ratched's rooms were exactly what Lorna might expect: extremely simple, though with a number of items far too modern for Middle-Earth, metal tools of various kinds, and something that looked very like a Bunsen burner. The few pieces of furniture – bed, desk, armchair – were all extremely high-end, however; he probably wasn't a man who had lived on the cheap on Earth. Warm though the day was, all the windows were closed, and a strange, bitter, unidentifiable chemical odor lingered in the air.

"I have numerous pairs of eyes across this corner of Middle-Earth," he said. "One such pair belongs to a young Rider in Rohan, who has just seen an army of walking dead emerge through an impressively large portal."

Lorna found she wasn't at all surprised he'd do something so very invasive. "How do you know they're like Aelis?"

"The manner in which they died, mostly," he said. "And their clothing fits the time period. Few hemorrhagic fevers could produce the symptoms they display, and none were common enough in medieval Europe to account for such numbers."

"Please tell me it's not the full two million," she groaned.

"It is not in Rohan," he said. "However, I think Rohan will not be the only place they appear. I doubt they are foolish enough to put all their eggs in one basket, especially as even the Lady does not know where Thorvald might arrive."

"So Middle-Earth might be looking at an influx of zombies all over the damn place," she sighed. "Because _that's_ going to end well."

"At least it will prove a very large distraction for Sauron," Thranduil said. "If anything could be capable of making him panic, it would be that."

"Can't blame him," Lorna snorted. "Two millions zombies would make _anyone_ freak out."

"Should that prove the case, Minas Tirith might well find itself in a great deal of trouble," Thranduil said. "Sauron's forces are likely not yet considerable, but neither are Gondor's, and he can muster an army far more swiftly. Most of Gondor's people can evacuate to the western borders, but holding the city might well prove suicide."

"I think not," Von Ratched said, a truly dreadful contemplation in his voice. "The Nine are not yet strong enough to leave Mordor. I can handle orcs and Easterlings."

"An _army_ of them?" Thranduil asked, with open incredulity.

"Yes," Von Ratched said, his tone one of flat finality. "I toppled Nazi Germany – I can deal with a horde of mundane mortals."

"You _what_?" Lorna demanded. "How? And _why_?"

His pale eyes were absolutely chilling. "Telepathy, of course," he said. "Making people turn on one another is not at all difficult, nor is sowing paranoia. As for why – they annoyed me."

Well, that was disturbing as hell, and she had no idea at all what to say in response.

"I know you believe you do not need me, Lorna, but you are wrong," he said. "Even if you were capable of all the things I can do, which I know you that you are yet not, there are a number you _wouldn't_ do. You have never killed anyone on purpose, and I doubt you could. Not yet, anyway."

He was right, damn him. Even if she was faced with an orc, he might hesitate, because orc or not, it was still a person. Sort of.

"You had best teach her," he said, his eyes flicking to Thranduil. "Hesitation will only get her killed."

"I know," Thranduil said, but he didn't sound at all happy to admit it. "_Most_ people find it difficult at first," he added pointedly.

"Most people start out weak," Von Ratched retorted. "They learn, or they die."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," Lorna said. "Getting back to the actual point, what the hell do we do now? Do we ride out to meet the zombies?" She halfway hoped the answer was yes. Minas Tirith's baths and accommodations might be nice, but for some reason, she really didn't like it here – some reason quite apart from Von Ratched.

Well, no, actually she did know at least part of it. After her earlier conversation with Thranduil, part of her was irrationally afraid that he'd decided to leave her here, out of some misguided notion that she'd be better off with her own kind. It was _totally_ irrational, since even if he was that stupid, he'd never leave her anywhere near Von Ratched –

Von Ratched. She had an unfortunate, horrible suspicion that this was, somehow, all _his_ doing. Maybe their minds weren't as safe from as they thought.

"Yea, fuck this," she said. "Allanah, we're leaving." She all but dragged Thranduil out into the street again, violently tamping down her urge to throttle Von Ratched.

"What is it?" he asked, once she'd slammed the door.

"Cathain a chuaigh do amhras agus aisling dona tús?" she asked. _When did your doubts and nightmares start?_

"A seachtain ó shin," he said, mercifully taking her cue. "Cén fáth?" _A week ago. Why?_

"Ní dóigh liom go bhfuil siad nádúrtha, ar bith níos mó ná mar atá mianach," she growled, shoving her way through the crowd. "I mo thuairimse, tá siad air." _I don't think they're natural, any more than mine are. _

"Lorna, they cannot be. He cannot read our minds," he protested.

She looked up at him. "I don't think you don't need to be able to read someone's mind to plant a seed in it," she said. "I don't care how much he says we need him – I say we scrag the son'v a bitch. If we even _can_." She was starting to wonder if it would be as easy as she'd always thought. Living among Elves for so long had made her forget how scarily resilient humans could be, and Von Ratched wasn't exactly a normal human. He was even less normal than the rest of the cursed.

"Lorna," Thranduil said, pulling her into an alley, "why do you say that?"

"Because I'm afraid, too," she said, forcing herself to keep looking at him. "That you'll decide I'm better off with my own kind, and ditch me. I know it's not _my_ fear, though, because even if you were that dumb, you'd never leave me near Von Ratched. He fucked up when he planted _that_ seed."

All the color drained from Thranduil's face, and she had a horrible suspicion that he really _had_ thought just that. "I think we've both badly underestimated just how dangerous that man is," he said, with a quiet horror only she would have been able to detect.

"If he really did take down Nazi Germany, we definitely have." And if he'd touched Thranduil's mind, he might well be re-infected. Shit. "We need to get out'v here."

"That is what he wants," Thranduil said grimly. "He does not seem the sort of man to make such a blatant mistake. He wanted you to figure that out, and drive us both away, which likely means he's planned something he doesn't want us interfering with."

"So what the hell do we do now?" Normally she was all about deliberately pissing people off, but in this case she was _seriously_ creeped out.

"We go back to our room," Thranduil said, "and we prove him and our own doubts wrong."

Normally she'd make a joke about that, but she was far too rattled. At least, right now, she didn't particularly want to do anything else. She didn't think she could. Later on, she was going to have the very unenviable task of trying to work out Von Ratched's thought processes, which she looked forward to about as much as a root canal.

* * *

Yes, guys, underestimating Von Ratched is not wise. Fortunately, he's also underestimated the pair of you.

Title means "Fear and hope" in Irish. As always, your reviews are what sustain me.


	61. Intreoir

In which Rivendell gets some disturbing guests, Sharley and Gollum meet up with Gandalf and Bilbo, and Thranduil is both creepy, and a problem Von Ratched doesn't yet know he has.

* * *

It was pure chance that Elladan and Elrohir happened to be home when the storm hit. Elladan was extremely glad of it, for he would not have wanted to weather it on open ground.

There was no rain, but it brought wind and lightning the like of which he had never seen – hot wind, and dry, quite unlike anything this part of Middle-Earth ought to produce. It roared through the valley, snapping great boughs as though they were twigs. Thunder rattled the casings in the windows, driving horses and chickens into a panicked frenzy.

He and his brother watched it from a high window, and he wondered how long it would take to tear the valley apart.

"Do you think this came from Lorna's world?" Elrohir asked.

"Maybe, but I doubt it. I do not think any world could produce something so unnatural." Which made Elladan deeply uneasy. Anyone or anything that could produce this had to be powerful indeed – perhaps the same person who had created such a ripple in Middle-Earth's reality not so long ago.

And yet he sensed no _evil_ in the storm, just as he had sensed none in that massive expenditure of power. Lorna had said her world lacked magic aside from the curses – perhaps another was involved. He dearly hoped not, because one was more than enough.

A horn blared, almost drowned out by a clap of thunder. The pair moved at once, and dread gripped Elladan's heart, because anything that could be moving about in such weather had to be formidable indeed. He raced to the armory, his brother hot on his heels, only to be stopped by their father halfway.

"No armor," he said. "The metal will only attract the lightning. All we can do right now is repel whatever dares threaten us."

_That_ did not fill Elladan with confidence. Only a fool fought without armor, but Adar was right – going out into that storm wearing so much metal might well be suicide, even for one of the Eldar.

They continued on to the armor, grabbing bows and knives rather than swords. The knives were weapons of last resort; without armor, their only safety lay in distance.

Unbelievably, the storm actually seemed to have grown worse; when they went outside, the sheer force of the wind nearly blew him double in it, hair streaming and tangling. What could actually attack them in such a gale? Surely not orcs.

Horses were not to be thought of, all being too terrified to leave their stalls – there was nothing for it but to run, as best they actually could, following a long line of other, along the winding paths to the valley's edge. Calling out orders was useless – they were reduced to hand signals, and even they were difficult to make out thanks to the blinding sheets of lightning. Even so, many cries and oaths filled the air, and when the twins reached the edge, he saw why.

He had heard tales of wights, though he had never seen one. These did not look like anything he had imagined – Edain they were, but very, very dead, corpse-pallid, their eyes filled with blood, many of their noses bearing streams of it old and dried. They bore no weapons, but most of those near the front had been pierced with arrows they did not even seem to notice. On they came, slow but inexorable, and Elladan drew his knives, knowing arrows were of no use.

When the nearest, a tall woman with a blood-matted tangle of red hair, drew but a yard away, he sprang to meet her – and got the shock of his life when she spoke.

"Is this truly necessary?" she asked – in _English_.

For the first time in his life, Elladan froze. Her expression beneath her mask of blood was distinctly irritated. "_What?_" he said, also in English.

"We have not come here to harm you, foolish boy," she said. "You waste your arrows."

He understood half of that, so he held up his arm – the signal for cease-fire. It took a minute for the order to pass down the line, but the arrows halted.

"Why you here?" he asked, wishing he'd learned more English from Lorna.

"Because you," she said, "are shortly going to have a very, very large problem."

* * *

True to Sinsemilla's prediction, Sméagol flatly refused to travel in daylight. He would hide in whatever shade could be found, curled in a ball and muttering to himself. He _slept_ surprisingly rarely, but his hatred for the sun needed no translation.

_"He's slowing us down,"_ Kurt complained.

"Gandalf and Bilbo are headed our direction," Sharley said. "It doesn't matter when and where we meet them."

_"Has it occurred to you that he and Bilbo aren't going to be pleased to see each other?"_ he demanded.

"Kurt, regardless of what you believe, I'm not _completely_ stupid," she snapped, leaning back with her hands laced behind her head. The sky above her was still blue, but one hell of a storm was amassing in the west – there was, she feared, another door from the Other. One was bad enough, but two? How many more would open, and what the hell would it do to Middle-Earth?

The arid heat this one brought had reached the mountains already, filling the air with the bittersweet scent of dead fir needles. It was an aroma she was well familiar with, since the Other's forests had been baking to death by slow degrees for centuries.

She didn't care who was coming through the Doors – she couldn't think of _anyone_ who wouldn't upset the balance even more than she had already. Not even Jary; while her foster-mother was useful, where she went, so did her ship, and that was not a thing that could possibly be hidden. Sure, it would make getting rid of the Ring easier, but the long-term consequences might not be worth it.

She doubted it _was_ Jary, though, or Tanya. The Other needed both of them far too badly for either to be spared, and Azarael would not risk wandering into an alien world unless something in that world was a direct threat to the Other. Sharley might be a god in name, but her father was one in truth, and his presence in a realm not his own might well just make things that much worse.

Sharley herself was bad enough, and she still had only a fraction of his power, even with the sword. He didn't actually _need_ the thing – he could wipe out continents if he was willing to deal with the fallout, which fortunately he never had been. Unlike Akathisia, he knew that having power did not mean you had to – or even _should_ – use it.

She heard the very faint sound of footsteps down the trail, and hopped to her feet – the steps of two people, one barely audible. A glance at Sméagol showed her he'd actually fallen asleep for once, so she headed down the path to meet them. She had a feeling she knew who they belonged to.

* * *

Lorna had (eventually) done a thorough inspection of Thranduil's mind, and been filled with dread when she found faint traces of an alien presence that could only herald a second infection.

"That son'v a bitch," he snarled, even as she gently traced the line of Thranduil's cheek. "Allanah, I'm going to be honest with you – I still can't cure this. I'm going to try to wall it off, like Galadriel did with the infection I gave you, but I'm not her, so I can't guarantee how well it'll work. If it doesn't, we're going to have to split from Minas Tirith whether we want to or not, because it won't be safe for you to be around humans." God, did that piss her off – Von Ratched might succeed in driving them off after all. And if her wall didn't work, he'd have created a monster without meaning to.

And possibly sown the seeds of his own destruction. The bastard was craftier than she'd suspected, but in terms of sheer power, Thranduil far outmatched him. Should Thranduil get it into his head to brain-rape Von Ratched, there would be nothing the arsehole could do about it. Wouldn't _that_ be justice with a vengeance, if not for what it would do to Thranduil himself. Lorna loved her husband, but she was under no illusions about how dangerous he could be – and the only way she'd be able to stop him would be to kill him.

"If that proves to be the case, we must cripple him first," he said, sitting up and taking her with him.

"Mentally, or literally?" she asked, leaning against his shoulder. "Personally, I'm down for both."

He laughed, but there was little humor in it. "He will still be far too dangerous if we merely break his legs," he said. "I dare not touch his mind again. It would be down to you to wreck his brain."

Lorna was not at all sure she could do that. Her strength might – _might_ – match his, but she had nothing of his subtlety or precision. Her only hope would be to ambush him and tear like mad before he had a chance to defend himself. And unfortunately, he'd probably be expecting that.

"I don't know how viable an option that is," she sighed. "Unless I whack him in the head and put him in a coma."

"It would be better than nothing," Thranduil said. "Do what you must with my mind. We have work to do."

She looked up at him, and dread twisted in her gut once more. Far back in his eyes was a look she had hoped to never see again.

Lorna hadn't lied to him when she said she trusted him, but that was as he was. Should she prove unable to stem this infection, she wasn't at all sure he wouldn't hurt her as well as Von Ratched.

* * *

Von Ratched was both irked and rather disturbed when he discretely checked on Lorna and Thranduil. She had discovered his handiwork, but not only had they not fled, as any sensible person would do, they'd apparently decided their best course of action was to go back to bed together. Clearly they had not been married long.

Well, he'd find a way to get rid of them somehow. Everyone had their price – or their leverage.

* * *

Elrond was uncertain if he should be pleased or terrified that these creatures were not what he had feared them to be.

That they had not come to attack the valley was a relief, but they were, according to his sons, not of this world – they spoke the language of the alien Edain in the Woodland Realm. Unfortunately, neither twin was anywhere near fluent in the tongue, so their true purpose was not easily divined.

Most seemed content to wait outside in the storm, but the red-haired woman, Maeve, he brought to his study, the better to be heard over the thunder.

She looked an unholy, unnatural creature, but she moved like one of the living, not a wight. It was clear she had died of some disease, but never in all his long years had Elrond seen anything that could produce such symptoms. Whatever malady it had been, it had to have been extremely widespread, to kill in such numbers. There were thousands ranged over the ground outside the valley, and who knew how many more beyond.

She would not sit, when they reached his study, preferring to stand by the open doors of the terrace. Erestor, Elrond's faithful librarian/shadow, lit a few candles, but the intermittent lightning rendered them moot.

When Maeve spoke, it was slowly, giving Elladan and Elrohir time to puzzle out her words with one another. How unfortunate it was, that they had not stolen any of the Edain from Thranduil – Thranduil, who Elrond desperately hoped had not done something stupid since then. At least Galadriel had been with him when the twins left.

"She says that one from Earth is coming," Elladan said at last. "The world Lorna came from, but it has…slept, I think, for many years."

"Who is it?" Elrond asked. He would not have liked the thought of even another ordinary Edain, but this number of Maeve's people would surely not have turned up to answer the threat of an ordinary person.

Elladan translated the question, and Maeve's answer was both long and grave. A flash of lightning lit up her pallid face, glittering off the blood in her eyes.

"I do not fully understand her," he said. "Someone who is also of the undead, but not of her kind. I think he is the one who caused the plague that killed them all."

_That_ was a disquieting thought. "What else?"

"I don't know," Elladan said, his frustration palpable. "I do not speak enough of her tongue. We were all so busy trying to teach Lorna Sindarin that we did not learn much of her own language. We ought to have stolen one of the Edain before we left the Woodland Realm."

"None of them would have been able to make the journey," Elrohir said. "Katje, Ratiri, and Geezer were too weakened by their imprisonment in their own world, and Lorna by Thranduil. For…various reasons."

That was a thing that had disturbed Elrond deeply, and continued to do so. Though the twins had assured him Thranduil's madness was in check, Elrond knew him better than they did, and he didn't trust that to last.

"Well," he said, fighting an urge to rub his forehead, "at least they will give any marauding orcs a terrible shock. We will leave them in peace, though I hope they need not linger long."

* * *

Bilbo, quite frankly, did not know what to think.

He couldn't exactly say he'd been _surprised_ when Gandalf turned up on his doorstep, since the wizard always had appeared without warning. What was surprising, very unpleasantly, was the news he brought.

Bilbo had known, in a vague sort of way, of Sauron and the Last Alliance. Everyone did, but it was not something most ever thought of, except at school, when it was just one of a number of things in the history books. Certainly nobody ever thought of the Ring, so discovering that his was that Ring was unbelievable at first. Gandalf would not lie to him, though – and, rather tellingly, wouldn't actually touch the thing himself.

He would, however, do everything in his power to convince Bilbo to leave on another adventure, this one far darker than the first. Naturally, Bilbo had no desire at all to go, but really, what choice did he have? He could hardly sit on such a powerful artifact forever, and Gandalf seemed to have good reason not to carry it himself.

So, grumbling all the while, Bilbo had put his old pack together – and this time been smart enough to leave a notice with the Gamgees that he would be on another long journey, and for Eru's sake, leave his home alone this time. He did _not_ want to come back to find all his possessions being sold right under his nose – he'd only just got all of them back.

He'd kept grumbling all the way through the Shire, but strangely, once they were past the borders, he found his mood considerably improved. At first, he did not want to admit to himself why.

He'd been glad beyond measure to return to the home he'd missed so very much, and appreciated it in ways he never had before. However, it hadn't taken long for him to realize just how much his adventure had changed him. He went on long walks, exploring parts of the Shire he had never seen before, and started to find some of his more placid and bucolic acquaintances rather irritating. At first he'd felt terribly guilty about it, but their ignorance often grated.

That did not, however, mean he'd wanted to leave again so soon. He'd been so utterly resistant to it that he really was rather shocked at how easily that resistance melted away. He'd got to see Rivendell again, and perhaps when all was over, travel to the Lonely Mountain once more.

Provided, of course, he survived this journey. The more he heard about Mordor, the more he began to doubt. Even Gandalf had limitations, though the wizard had assured him they would be joined by other powerful companions. He would not want for either guides or guards, but none of them were willing to bear the Ring, for fear of what it might do to them.

_That_ puzzled him. He often forgot he even had the thing, for all he carried it with him on his watch-chain. Apparently his lack of temptation was an anomaly.

Certainly, the only thing he was tempted to do right now was hurl the blasted bit of metal off the side of the mountain. He was hot, sweaty, and irritable, all the more so because Gandalf didn't seem affected by the heat at all. The old wizard never seemed to tire or lose his breath, which was patently unfair.

He paused, however, when they reached a curve in the trail, and Bilbo glanced up at him uneasily.

"What is it, Gandalf?" he asked.

"One of our companions," he said, "who has, I think, picked up a companion of her own."

As if summoned, a woman stepped around the curve – one of the strangest people Bilbo had seen. One of the Big Folk, but not an Elf, dressed in trousers and a shirt much too large for her, even though she was extremely tall – a smidge taller even than Gandalf, maybe. Why and how her_ hair_ was blue, he didn't know, but he'd heard the Big Folk could be outlandish.

She didn't seem outlandish, though – she seemed _wrong_. Alien, in no way he could possibly describe, and he found he wasn't so sure he wanted her for a traveling companion, which made him feel rather terrible. He knew he shouldn't judge someone on first sight, but with her, he couldn't help it.

Gandalf didn't seem to find her odd at all. "Sharley," he said, but the rest of his sentence was spoken in no language Bilbo had ever heard.

The woman – Sharley – smiled, and it made all of the differences in the world, turning her statue-like expression into something warm and alive. She responded in the same tongue, and Gandalf's expression shifted into something rather pained.

"Oh dear," he said.

"What?" Bilbo asked.

"She has a companion you may not wish to see, though she says she can control him. How on Earth she found him, or convinced him to follow her, I do not know."

"Who is it?" Bilbo had a horrible feeling he already knew, but he had to ask anyway.

"Gollum, I'm afraid."

Bilbo choked.

* * *

Trying to block off part of Thranduil's mind was a delicate, exhausting, nerve-wracking process that took far longer than when Galadriel had done it, but Lorna was paranoid, and took exaggerated care. Though it was only late afternoon when she was finished, she was so tired she had to take a nap – with clothes on this time, just in case she had to move at a moment's notice.

Thranduil actually fell asleep before she did, even more worn out than she was. She watched his blank zombie-stare at the canopy, even now creeped out that he slept with his eyes open. That would probably never go away, honestly. Shaking her head, when she lay down she rested it on his chest, listening to his heartbeat beneath her ear.

When she woke again, it was to a pervasive, all-encompassing sense of _wrongness_. She'd shifted onto her back while she was asleep, tangled up in her own hair, but when she reached up to shove it out of her face, she whacked something solid – Thranduil's arm. When she opened her eyes, she found him looming above her, hand planted firmly on either side of her head, his hair a silvery curtain around them. Though the room was dark, she could see his eyes well enough, and their expression made her freeze.

Not for months had she seen him look so remote, nor had she seen that hungry look in his gaze.

She'd failed. She'd failed _big-time._

"Thranduil," she said carefully, "what are you doing?"

"Watching you," he said, and his voice made her shiver for reasons quite different than it usually did. Resting on his left arm, he traced the fingers of his right hand along her face, feather-light. "I need you, Lorna. I need all that you carry in your head."

Fuck fuck _fuck_. This had to be handled with extreme care, which was not something she excelled at. She had a terrible suspicion he might get violent, in this unnatural state.

She reached up to cup his face, smoothing her thumb over his cheekbone. "You have my mind, Thranduil," she said. "You have all that's in it. I think you just might have more'v me than I do."

Mercifully, that actually seemed to reach him, up to a point. The hunger didn't leave his eyes, but it lessened somewhat. "I do, don't I," he said, and it was a statement, not a question. "I have all of you." His hand trailed down to her neck, fingers curling over her throat, and a jolt of pure terror spiked through Lorna.

_Don't make me hurt you,_ she thought desperately. _Don't make me have to kill you. I can't do it._

Her fear must have shown, for Thranduil paused, his hand returning to her face before running his fingers through her hair.

"Don't be afraid of me, Lorna," he said, a strange note of grief in his voice. "I would never hurt you. _Ever_. And nothing else will, either. Least of all _him_."

Uh-oh. "Von Ratched?" she asked, unsurprised when he nodded.

Part of her was sorely tempted to let Thranduil get on with it. They could find out where the weapon was and then kill the fucker, but at what cost to Thranduil himself? What would digging through Von Ratched's mind, which was no doubt a horror-show, _do_ to him? And that was assuming he could get near the bastard at all.

She couldn't just say no, though. That wouldn't go over well at all. "We have to be careful," she said instead, holding his gaze. "He's like me. He doesn't need to touch us to kill us, and with telekinesis, we'd fight each other to a standstill, assuming we didn't kill one another outright."

"You will help me?" he asked, stroking her hair. There was a trace of surprise in his voice.

_I don't have much choice, do I?_ she thought, but what she said aloud was, "That's what spouses do, isn't it?"

The smile he gave her both relieved her, and chilled her to the core. Relief, because he wasn't going to fight her, wasn't going to run off and get his neck broken, but the chill came from the lazy, almost dreamy viciousness it contained. Thranduil could be ruthless, but she had never known him to be cruel, and now there was cruelty in both his eyes and that knife-edged smile.

"It is," he said. "But still, you are nervous. Don't worry, Dilthen Ettelëa." His fingers brushed along her temple again, but this time a shocking jolt of pleasure shot through her. "Don't be afraid of what I am."

He – oh, damn, he'd done that straight to her mind, bypassing her body entirely. "Thranduil -" she started, uncertain if she wanted to protest or demand he do it again.

"It is all right," he said against her ear, fingers now tracing the line of her brow. "I am not what you fear me to be."

She strongly doubted that, but the next wave of _need_ that passed through her made her forget why it mattered. What was he even doing to her? She couldn't exactly say she _minded_, but it was inconvenient timing. At least, she thought it was. Now she wasn't sure.

* * *

Yeah, Von Ratched's going to discover he's got a big, big problem once Thranduil's no longer, shall we say, _distracted._ Bilbo and Gollum's meeting with likewise prove…interesting. Kurt's right – that's not going to go well at all.

Title means "Introductions" in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me hope and inspiration.

There is a chapter in _Ettelëa Interludes_ on my AO3 account, but I have to warn you, it's kind of disturbing.


	62. Feall

In which Sharley meets Bilbo, Thranduil is a crazypants, Von Ratched, Thranduil, and Lorna have a showdown, and both guys discover why you _do not_ piss Lorna off. (She will legit burn your house down.)

* * *

So this was Bilbo Baggins. Sharley tried not to be blatant in her assessment, but, as with so many things, her tact had died when she did.

He was an odd little figure in his breeches and waistcoat, his extremely hairy feet bare. At first glance he seemed harmless, even with the sword that hung at his side, but there was a strength in his blue eyes that only experience could bring.

He was certainly inspecting _her_ closely, but that just meant he was wise. And, while he looked wary, he didn't seem _afraid_ – not until Gandalf told him who her companion was.

"Tell him Sméagol can't hurt him," she told Gandalf. "He really _can't_. I'm not just saying that."

"I'm quite sure you aren't," the wizard said, leaning on his staff. "Why did you bring him?"

She shrugged. "I had to," she said. "I just don't know why yet. There's _something_ he's gotta do, and…well, I felt sorry for him. I know he killed to get his hands on the Ring, but he's paid for it and then some. Just looking at him…he's totally unnatural now, and I've kinda got a thing about unnatural creatures. At least I'm not alone in that, when I'm around others."

"Do you think he can be…repaired?"

She got the feeling that wasn't the word he wanted, but he probably hadn't had enough time to get really fluent in English. "Dunno yet. Partly, at least. More than if he'd stayed in that cave, anyway."

Sharley hesitated, wondering if she should say more. "I saw one of his alternate futures," she said at last. "He stayed in the cave until he couldn't stand it anymore, got caught by Sauron's goons and tortured until he coughed up Bilbo's last name, which sent the Ringwraiths to the Shire. Getting him out now, I've done a lotta people a favor, or so I hope."

"I do wish I knew how your power worked," Gandalf said.

She laughed, without much humor. "Join the club. Time isn't what I see, it's what I _am_, but that's all I really know. Haven't been this way long enough to figure it out."

* * *

The trouble with Elves, Von Ratched thought, was that they moved in utter silence. His hearing was unusually keen, but it was still human, and thus he had almost no warning of Thranduil's approach until the Elf was almost within reach behind him – he was only are at all because he happened to turn at exactly the right moment.

He had to admit, if only to himself, that _that_ rattled him. On Earth, nothing and no one had ever managed to catch him unaware, but this was not Earth, and Thranduil was not human.

Nor, at the moment, was he _sane_ – one look at his pale eyes was proof of that. It wasn't just madness that lurked in their depths, either; twined within it was a strange, chilling sort of hunger. And Von Ratched, for once in his life, found himself truly uneasy.

He caught Thranduil with his telekinesis before the Elf could actually touch him, because he was quite certain the Elf's mind could overpower him if physical contact was actually made. Thranduil didn't seem at all surprised by it, though irritation flashed across his expression.

"I mean you no harm," he said, and there was an odd note in his voice, quite unlike the Thranduil Von Ratched had spoken to earlier – almost dreamy, but with a dark, sharp undercurrent. "I merely wish to see all that is in your mind."

"You," Von Ratched said, "are a terrible liar."

"Perhaps I am," Thranduil said, seemingly unperturbed at being called out. "But you cannot hold me thus forever. All mortals need sleep."

The Elf-king was right, but clearly the obvious solution had not occurred to him. "If I kill you, I will have no need to maintain this hold. Surely your time around Lorna has taught you that those like us can kill with a thought."

Thranduil's eyes narrowed. "Do not speak her name. And if you kill me, she will kill you. She tore apart a good quarter of my forest – snapping your neck would be no difficulty at all."

That…was rather intriguing, honestly. Having known no other telekinetics besides his mother, he didn't know if his strength was an anomaly or not. Either it truly wasn't, or Lorna was exceptionally strong as well.

Irritatingly, as much as he wanted to crush Thranduil's heart in his chest, he couldn't afford to alienate her – and there would be no thorough way of accomplishing that than killing her husband.

Her husband, who she would likely soon realize was missing. This could very easily turn into an extremely ugly domestic dispute that he did not at all want to be a part of.

* * *

Lorna woke totally disoriented – and alone. The room was fully dark, even the fire burnt to ashes, so she had no idea at all what time it was.

Memory caught up with her, hitting her like a freight train – and with it came total horror, crawling in waves beneath her skin.

Whatever Thranduil had done to her, it had been bloody amazing – and not at all something she'd asked for. He'd forced it upon her to subdue her, along with sweet words and promises of protection.

Forced it on her. There was another word for that, one her mined shied away from. Even so, she wanted to be sick.

She sat up, taking that horror, that feeling of betrayal and violation, and did what she always had done with trauma: shut it in a box, to be pushed far to the back of her mind. There was no time for it right now.

It wasn't really _Thranduil_ that had done it, she reminded herself, as she set about hunting up her outer clothes. Were he himself, he wouldn't have dreamt of doing something like that. He was crazy, and sick, and this time it wasn't his fault – the word she didn't want to think of had been done to him first, and turned him into something else. As he was now, he'd have no idea what he'd done to her actually was.

She kept telling herself that while she laced up her tunic and stuffed her feet into her boot. He'd be the horrified one, once he got his _self_ back.

The night air was cool when she stepped out into it, a faint breeze stirring her tangled hair. Thranduil would almost certainly be wherever Von Ratched was, and _him_ she could find very easily. She traced his mind through the silent streets, navigating by the faint moonlight, her mind mercifully quiet. Her clarity of thought certainly wasn't impaired _now_.

Naturally, the lights were still on when she found Von Ratched, shining golden through the windows. Lorna crept up to one, silent as she could, and swore internally.

Thranduil had indeed found the bastard, though at least neither of them were dead. Yet. Both spoke so quietly that she couldn't hear them through the glass – but she _could_ grab Von Ratched with her telekinesis.

Could, and did, and his expression lightened her heart immediately. She kept him in place while she found the door, the welcome heat of rising anger crowding out all other feelings. When she stepped through the door, she glared at him, but couldn't quite bring herself to look at Thranduil.

"You two," she said harshly, "are goddamn idiots. Von Ratched, let him go. Thranduil, get your head out'v your arse and get out'v here."

"Lorna," Thranduil said, and _now_ she looked at him, her glare so fierce it could have stripped paint.

"I. Said. Go," she snarled, and Von Ratched must have released him, for he actually recoiled a little. "This shitstain is _my_ problem. As for _you_," she added, turning her glower back to Von Ratched, "you've created one giant motherfucker'v a problem, and neither one'v us is qualified to fix it. I hope you're happy."

To his mounting irritation, he was staring at her, his expression both fascinated and more than a little repelled. "Release me, Lorna," he said, "and tell me what you mean."

"Yeah, _no_," she said. "Here's what's gonna happen. I'll let you go, and you will leave this room. If you don't, I'll kill you, and tear Minas Tirith apart until I find your fucking weapon." That welcome rage prickled beneath her skin, bearing her up, giving her strength she would not otherwise have been capable of just now.

"I would very much like to see you try," he said, with the barest quirk of an eyebrow.

"You _really_ wouldn't. I'm in an extremely bad mood, Von Ratched," she growled. "_Do. Not. Test. Me_."

Thranduil tried to step toward her, and she caught him with her telekinesis as well, in no way at all equipped to handle him right now.

"_You_ I'll deal with later," she snapped, ignoring his shocked expression. Von Ratched needed to know she meant business, but he'd swapped his telekinetic hold to her. There was little in this room she could fling at him without releasing either him or Thranduil, but maybe…

She tilted her head to the side, the simmer of her wrath chilling to something still and terrible. He'd called her unwilling to kill, but now, in this moment, so filled with rage and betrayal, she could kill him in a heartbeat.

Or a lack of one.

She only knew roughly where the heart was actually located, but she caught all the lines of everything around Von Ratched's chest cavity. And, with terrible dispassion, _squeezed_.

He obviously hadn't been expecting it or anything like it, for his eyes widened even as all the color left his face. It broke his hold on her, but only for a moment – she suspected it was pure instinct that caused him to knock her backward.

She'd been half expecting it, so she didn't full lose her footing, but her hip hit the corner of the desk so hard that she knew she'd have a fantastic bruise later. She threw the entire massive thing back at him – it broke her grip on Thranduil, but it was worth it, even if Von Ratched _did_ manage to dodge.

She could feel him grab at her again, but for once her small size worked to her advantage – there was less of her to grab than there was of him. Back came the desk, nearly hitting Thranduil in the process – Thranduil, who was looking at Von Ratched with murder in his eyes. He lacked telekinesis, but he did _not_ lack a sword, or Elven reflexes.

Incredibly, Von Ratched dodged _that_, too, but didn't actually manage to disarm Thranduil – probably because he was also busy fending off the chair Lorna threw at him. He deflected it to Thranduil, who ducked with unnerving grace, leaving it to smash and splinter against the far wall.

This was getting nowhere. She glanced at the fire, which was still crackling merrily away. What she intended would suck like hell for everyone, but she could handle it, and Thranduil…well, she wasn't best pleased with him right now, and maybe a burn or two would wake him up. _Something_ had to, right?

The wood exploded, spewing ash and cinders and glowing coals. She tried to throw the whole mess at Von Ratched, but lacked the precision; several bits of burning wood struck her in the face, and she could smell scorched fabric that was probably her own clothing.

A few of them must have hit Thranduil, for he swore in Sindarin, but the bulk found their target. Von Ratched too swore, in what sounded like German, his concentration so broken that she actually managed to hit him with what was left of the chair.

What _nobody_ was paying attention to were the curtains – whatever they were made of, it had to be flammable as hell, for they went up like a Roman candle. Lorna had no especial fear of fire, but having something flare up so close to her face sent her scrambling.

Well, this wasn't quite what she'd meant to do, but it worked – both man and Elf fled outside, and she followed close behind, nearly tripping over her own feet.

"_Look at what you made me do_," she growled, even as the flames spread. "Knock it off, before I skin you both." She stalked off into the darkness, knowing they'd have company very soon, and returned to Thranduil's room to gather her things. Much though it pained her, she knew she couldn't go to sleep near him while he was like this. She didn't dare.

She hadn't bothered locking the door on her way out, so opening it wasn't difficult. Most of her things were still packed, so, after lighting a few lamps, it was easy to find the others.

She touched one of the burns on her face, and felt a small blister that burst beneath the pressure of her fingers. Gross. What she was to do now, she didn't know. Given all the extra people in town, there probably weren't any spare rooms, but it wouldn't be the first time she'd slept on the street.

Unfortunately, Thranduil found her before she could leave. The mad hunger in his eyes hurt far worse than the burns, because what faced her now was not her husband. "Where are you going?" he asked, taking in her filled pack on the bed.

Lorna sighed. She hadn't wanted to have this discussion. "Somewhere else," she said. "Thranduil, you went into my mind without giving me any chance to consent or deny, did…_things_…to it, and then knocked me out. On Earth, we have a word for that."

He must have taken her meaning, for he could not have looked more stricken if she'd slapped him. "That's not –"

"I know it wasn't what you meant by it, but that's what it was," she said, swinging the pack onto her shoulder.

"Lorna, it is not safe out there," he said, his face entirely drained of color.

There was no viciousness or even accusation in her voice when she said, "I'm not safe in here, either."

If he'd been stricken before, now he looked at her like she'd just stabbed him. She didn't want to hurt him like that, but it was the truth. In his current state, she couldn't trust him to stay out of her head. He'd understand, whenever he was himself again.

He stepped through the door, and she hated the frisson of fear that shivered through her. His height, which was normally merely irritating, was daunting now, and though she could easily stop him, she didn't want to have to. "Lorna," he started, but went no further – probably not knowing what else to say.

"I'll come back, once I've found a way to fix your brain," she said, silently praying that that was even possible. "For now, I'll go bunk with Menelwen or someone." What the hell she was to tell the guards, she didn't know, but she'd think of something.

Still he advanced, and it was all she could do to hold her ground. When he reached out to touch her burned cheek, she flinched away before she could help it, and he froze. Some of the hungry madness actually cleared from his eyes, knocked away by a horrible mixture of guilt and grief.

"Lorna, I will not hurt you," he said, a note of pleading in his voice.

"You already have," she said, as gently as she could. "You just don't understand how, or why. And you won't, until you're _you_ again." And when he was, he would probably never forgive himself. God damn Von Ratched to whatever hell existed.

"Lorna, I will make this right," he said, his fingers hovering over her face without making contact.

"I know you will," she said, "but you can't yet. I'm going to go sleep, and tomorrow we'll work on your mind again." She absolutely did _not_ want to do that, given how easily he could overpower her, but _someone_ had to do it, and she was the only candidate. "If you love me at all, you'll get out'v my way."

Thank God he actually did, though the anguish in his eyes made her resolve waver. It really wasn't safe to stay here, though; no matter his intentions, she couldn't trust him like this. "But you _will_ come back?" Christ, he sounded lost.

"Of course I will. We'll fix this." They had to. She refused to entertain the idea that she might fail – what she was uncertain of was how long it would take her to trust sleeping near her again. He'd betrayed her terribly, no matter how mistakenly noble his intentions, and her trust, once broken, was not easily repaired.

She left in silence, heading out into a night shattered by the sound of bells that no doubt summoned a fire brigade, the glow of the fire washing over the darkened city. The guards would be on a lower level – she'd find Menelwen's room, and she'd sleep a while, and hope no nightmares would find her.

Through the fog of his madness, Thranduil could not understand why Lorna considered what he'd done to be rape. It had been necessary to protect her, though in the end it hadn't worked. No, he didn't understand why he thought it, but she _did_ think it, and that knowledge tore at his heart. Even now, he would never, ever want to hurt her, and somehow he had, fully without intending to.

The look in her eyes…he was never going to forget that, no matter how much he wanted to. Would she ever forgive him? Probably. Would she ever trust him again? Possibly not. He'd seen the hurt in her eyes, the betrayal, and somehow, the fact that she didn't wholly resent him just made it worse. He wanted to follow her and beg for forgiveness, to do whatever it took to erase the pain in her gaze, but even now he knew that was impossible, just yet.

The craving, the_ need_, still tore at his mind, but it had no outlet – Von Ratched had proved too wily an adversary, and he could never have asked that of Lorna again now, even if he hadn't possessed all she had to give.

Wine. Wine was the cure, even if it was only a temporary measure. He knew already that sleep would not find him this night.

If she could not contain this sickness, he was going to have to do it himself. He could not ask her to endure touching his mind again – not after having suffered from it so recently. He would do this, and try to repair what he had so thoroughly broken.

It could not, however, be here. She might wish to be free of him right now, but it was not safe – not while Von Ratched was at liberty. Lorna would sleep soon, and Thranduil would make certain she _stayed_ asleep until they were safely away. They would take Menelwen, so that Lorna need not fear to be alone with him. All would be well, by the time they were through.

* * *

Because, you know, _that's_ going to end well. Just about as well as all the dead who've showed up in Dale, who we'll see next chapter. Dale, which has just received some prototype assault rifles from the Dwarves. Yeah, it's gonna get messy.

Title means "Betrayed" in Irish. As is and always will be the case, your reviews fuel my creativity.


	63. Iarmhairtí

In which Ratiri gets a nasty shock, Bilbo finds himself feeling very sorry for Sharley, and the consequences of Thranduil's actions make themselves known, though things are not without hope.

* * *

Midday though it was, Ratiri, Bard, and everyone else in Dale and Erebor with any sense had found refuge inside. They _had_ to, because the worst storm Ratiri had ever seen in his life had rolled down the lake and hit them like a bowling ball full of lightning.

He stood now at the parlor window with Bard, watching the waters of this near end of the lake churn in what had to be nearly hurricane-force winds. Already two trees had been ripped right out of the ground, the tearing crack all but lost amid the boom of the thunder.

"Is this normal?" he asked.

"Not remotely," Bard said, "and I fear what it heralds." He wasn't kidding, either; his aura was grey. "I hope everyone had found shelter."

It was a legitimate worry, for the storm had come seemingly out of nowhere. It wasn't much past noon, but the sky was nearly as black as night, veined with lightning, the wind moaning around the buildings when it could actually be heard over the thunder. Katje had been with Geezer and the Dwarves, as was Bain, and both girls were safe in the house. Anyone who had been caught outside the city walls, or down by the lake, however, might well be in big trouble.

Ratiri knew, vaguely, that the Elves had marched away to prevent Von Ratched causing a storm, but he hadn't imagined _this_ – this he had seen in his dreams o what might have been, and it made him very much afraid that the Elves had failed. Von Ratched had probably succeeded at doing something stupid, and Ratiri could only hope it wouldn't be _too_ big a disaster.

Outside – and who would be stupid enough to be outside, he couldn't imagine – someone screamed. It wasn't a cry of shock or surprise, but of pure animal terror, and it was getting closer.

Sven, the butcher's son – who had far more bravery than brains – ran by as best he could amid such a wind, bent nearly double against the force of it. He was white as a sheet, eyes wide and wild, but Ratiri could not see what the hell he was running from.

Bard spotted it first, and gave out a short, involuntary cry. Ratiri followed his gaze along the street, down past the bakery (which had lost several shingles already) and spotted a zombie. An honest-to-goddamn _zombie_.

"You are fucking kidding me," he muttered. It was a man, dark-skinned and dark-haired, small and slight, his clothes not at all out-of-place for Dale, though Ratiri didn't recognize him. He _had_ to be a zombie, because nobody could have such a huge chunk torn out of their throat and live.

Another followed behind him, this one an older woman, far bloodier than the man. Both had been bleeding from their eyes when they died – had it been some fever that did this? If so, he didn't want anyone touching these things, even after they were dead. Again.

"Zombie," he said to Bard. "Not let it bite you."

"Why not?" Bard asked, staring at the pair with horrified fascination.

"You become like them. Kill them in the head, but do not touch. They are sick."

"_That_ I can see," Bard said. "You, go up onto the roof with the gun. I don't dare use it myself yet."

Ratiri didn't bother pointing out that he himself was no more competent with the gun than Bard. The people of Dale seemed to assume that everyone who came from the world with guns had to be equally proficient at using them, and wouldn't believe otherwise. In vain did he protest that he was a _doctor_, not a _soldier_, but his case wasn't helped by the fact that Katje had proved to have shockingly good aim. _She_ would have actually been useful, but she was in Erebor, and so might as well have been on the moon right now.

He shook his head. "My aim is awful," he said. "Give it to Sigrid." To his secret embarrassment, she'd taken to the gun like a duck to water, and had far outmatched his ability on their first day of practice.

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Bard looked amused, and Ratiri groaned inwardly. For whatever reason, Bard seemed determined to have him as a son-in-law – which struck him as weird as hell, since Bard was only five years older than he was. "Then go give it to her."

He sighed, but took the gun from the closet. If Sigrid knew anything of her father's wish to meddle, she so far hadn't let on – but then, she could be surprisingly difficult to read for such a young woman. She was also remarkably stubborn, so if she did find out about her father's intentions and disagreed with the, Bard would definitely lose that battle.

She was already at the head of the stairs when Ratiri climbed them, her face pale and serious. "Are they from your world?" she demanded.

"God, no,' he said, handing her the gun. It was a long, bolt-action sniper's rifle of some model or another, with bullets as long as his thumb. "I do not know where come from, but not Earth."

She loaded the rifle with practiced ease, barely needing to look at it. "You are sure?"

"Unless it has change much since I leave, yes, I am sure." He hoped like hell that wasn't the case – he did still have family and friends there, although not many of either.

He strongly doubted they were from Earth, though – not with the way they were dressed. The thought that they might be from Middle-Earth was just as bad, however, because it meant this disease had ripped through some group of people or other. _That_ was not a thought he relished. "Kill in the head," he said. "Otherwise they not die."

Her expression told him there would be many questions later, but for now she hurried to the roof, cool as a cucumber, as his father might say. Hopefully she wouldn't get blown away. That left him with the unenviable task of finding something sharp and following Bard to take care of any stragglers. Sigrid only had so many bullets, and God knew how many of the things might be out there.

Bard only had one sword, so when Ratiri reached the kitchen, he grabbed one of long butcher knives, and hoped he'd have the stomach to do what needed to be done. Bard had already left, so, with a deep breath, Ratiri plunged out into the wind after him.

* * *

Bilbo was not at all surprised when Gollum, upon first sight of him, screeched like a feral cat and barreled toward him. What happened after that, however, surprised him immensely.

"Sméagol," Sharley said – just that one word, with mild censure in her tone, brought Gollum up short. The screeching stopped, leaving him looking very much like a sullen child.

"How did she do that?" Bilbo asked Gandalf, as worried as he was grateful.

"I have no idea," the wizard said, "yet. This journey may prove more interesting than I had anticipated."

Bilbo wasn't entirely sure that was a good thing. Sharley didn't speak a word of Westron, so how had she and Gollum been communicating? _Had_ they been communicating, or had he simply followed her for no reason? Somehow, the latter thought was more unsettling.

"We must go," Gandalf said. "There is far more ground to cover. Sharley says she can control Gollum, and I believe her."

"What about when we sleep?" Bilbo asked.

"Sharley does not sleep. She will watch him."

"What, _never_?" Even Elves and Wizards slept, albeit rarely.

"Never. She says the ability was lost to her when she died."

Bilbo blinked. "Wait, _what_?"

* * *

Menelwen was utterly terrified, and had no idea what to do.

She hadn't asked Lorna any questions, upon finding the woman on her doorstep; judging by Lorna's expression, her tale was not a nice one, and could wait until morning. Menelwen had been quite sure it had something to do with the burning building two levels up, because, well, this _was_ Lorna. The burns on her face only confirmed her suspicion. Hopefully the story would come out when Lorna woke.

Menelwen had not stayed – once Lorna was asleep, she'd headed out to see if there was anything she could do about the fire. Halfway there she had run across the King, whose eyes had stopped her cold.

_No_, she thought, unable to speak. He'd been cured of that, hadn't he? She thought she understood now how Lorna had wound up in her room.

"Menelwen," he said, the even, measured calm of his voice slightly strained. "I believe you have seen my wife."

She couldn't lie to him – she'd been conditioned for centuries to speak the truth to her King, and even if she'd managed a lie, he'd see through it. "Yes, my lord," she said faintly. The play of firelight and shadow over his face made him look alien, unlike the King she'd served for much of her life, but even it wasn't as terrible as the madness of his eyes.

"Take me to her," he ordered.

Menelwen swallowed, convinced she was about to die. "No, my lord."

The force of his glare nearly made her faint. "_What_ did you say?"

"No, my lord," she repeated, more firmly. "She said nothing when she came to me, but she would not have come if you had not hurt her. You are my King, but Lorna is my friend, and I will not lead you to her."

To her great surprise, not only did the King not strike her down, his expression shifted into something very like grief. "I did hurt her," he said, "though not in the way you fear. I wish to make restitution for it."

Menelwen tried to sift his words for truth, but she did not know the King nearly well enough to tell if he was lying. She doubted anyone did. "And how do you mean to do that, my lord?" she asked. Questioning him went against every ounce of training she had, but he was not himself right now.

"If she cannot cure me, I must cure myself – but we cannot do it here, with that accursed _creature_ lurking in the shadows. He is the source of this…infection."

He could only be speaking of Von Ratched. She hesitated, torn, but the King would find Lorna one way or another, and if she went with him, at least Lorna would not be alone. "Very well, my lord." She turned, hoping she was not making a disastrous mistake, and led him back through the darkened streets, which were growing rather crowded as more and more people spilled outside, summoned by the fire-bells.

When they reached her room, her fingers twitched at the hilt of her sword as the King leaned over Lorna, tracing his fingers over her face. She didn't stir, not even when he lifted her, blankets and all.

"Come, Menelwen," he said. "She will feel more at ease if you are with us when she wakes."

That he would have such consideration was a good sign, surely. She followed, jittery, her nerves stretched taut, but still Lorna stayed deeply asleep, despite the noise. The gathering crowd parted before them, scattering like chickens, their whispers following like the sound of the sea.

Menelwen knew she should not let this happen, but what could she do? She could hardly attack the King, even if he hadn't been able to kill her without looking. There was much that _Lorna_ could do, but only if he released whatever hold he had on her mind. She could kill him with a thought, but even if her mental autonomy was returned to her, Menelwen doubted she would. Lorna, in her own words, could be a hardass, but not to those she loved.

When they reached the stables, Menelwen released her horse with deep misgiving. The King's elk was far too large for the stables, and had been quartered in the yard outside, and when she led her horse out into the night, he was already astride it, Lorna still sound asleep before him.

Menelwen froze. "My lord, I do not think we should leave yet," she said.

The King's eyes were like ice when he said, "You dare question me further?"

Menelwen swallowed hard. "Look at her, my lord."

He did, and now he was the one who froze, all the color draining from his face.

Lorna's nose was bleeding.

* * *

Like Gandalf, Sharley never seemed to tire – to Bilbo's growing irritation. Onward they marched, as afternoon turned to evening, and nary a word did she speak, save to keep Gollum – sorry, _Sméagol_ ¬– in line. The creature hissed and spit, but each time she called his name, he returned to her. Bilbo still had no idea how she managed that, and decided he didn't want to.

When they stopped for the night, Sméagol crept off into the darkness, muttering to himself. Sharley seemed unconcerned, but Bilbo was – exhausted though he was, sleep eluded him for some time, only finding him when at last he couldn't withstand it.

His dreams were strange and unpleasant, but when he woke, Sméagol was safely far away, seated at Sharley's side. She spoke to him in her own tongue, and though he obviously couldn't understand her, the sound of her voice seemed to soothe him. He'd stopped muttering, though he still rocked back and forth, as if to comfort himself.

"How did he get like that?" Bilbo wondered aloud.

"Your Ring," Gandalf replied. He was packing his pipe, seeming quite at ease. "Sharley has told me something of his past. He had held that Ring for five hundred years."

Bilbo stared. "Five hundred – no one lives that long, except the Elves. What _is_ he?"

"He was once a hobbit," Gandalf said, lighting his pipe with a flick of his fingers. "The Ring greatly extended his lifespan. It possessed him, as it has not possessed you – partly, I think, because he murdered his cousin to take possession of it, while you spared him when you easily could have killed him."

The thought made Bilbo cold. Looking at Sméagol, one would never have guessed he had once been a hobbit, or anything like one. "How does she know all this, if she can't speak with him?"

"Sharley sees Time," Gandalf said. "The past as well as the future. She has read Sméagol's history – and that of our Company."

"How does _that_ work?"

"I do not know, and neither does she. If there is another such as her, she has never found them. It is, I believe, why she has something of a soft spot for Sméagol – they are both unique, and in no good way. I trust her to keep you safe from him, though she and I both doubt he will ever be truly healed. Her plan is to leave him with the Wood-Elves, in the hope that they might aid him."

Bilbo highly doubted King Thranduil would appreciate _that_, but even he might have a difficult time saying 'no' to Sharley. She didn't look like a person it would be easy to disobey. "Would they be willing to do that?"

"I doubt she will leave them much choice in the matter. Sharley can be very persuasive, even if only because people would rather give her what she wants so she will go away."

Suddenly, Bilbo felt very sorry for the woman. That must be a terrible sort of existence – he couldn't imagine what it must be like, knowing that everyone you met wanted you gone as soon as possible. "How can she endure that?"

"She has no choice. A person can endure much, if they must."

Bilbo made a private resolution to learn to endure her, if only because not one ought to have to live like that. Not even creepy Big People who were, if Gandalf was to be believed, _dead_.

* * *

Sheer terror cut through the fog of Thranduil's madness, leaving him something close to clear-headed.

Not once had he thought this possible, but he could have killed himself for it now. They had spent so much time in one another's minds these last months that he had thought Lorna beyond that, but she very evidently was not. Why _now_?

_She has been allowing you in_, a nasty voice whispered. _This time, she did not._

He didn't want to hear or think it, but crushing guilt found him anyway as he spurred the elk out of the city gates. He could not take her to the Houses of Healing – they risked discovery by Von Ratched. This could be healed – it_ had_ to be – but not there.

Menelwen, he knew, thought him both mad and terrible, but she followed anyway, doubtless hoping she could in some way protect Lorna from him. That she would fear the necessity was like a blade in his chest, but there was no time to address it now, as they rode off into the night. That, as so much else, would come later.

_Do not die, Lorna. Do not leave our children before they are properly born. Do not make me have to tell them I killed their mother_. She could not leave him, not now – he would die without her.

So they plunged into the night, and he did not halt until the city was no longer visible. Menelwen's horse was flagging by then, and even the elk was displeased with him.

Lorna's nose still bled, but sluggishly, and even in the faint light of dawn he could see she was far too pale. He lifted her down from the elk very carefully. "Menelwen, build a fire and heat some water." He'd healed this once – he could do it again. He knelt with Lorna in the grass, while Menelwen gathered what wood she could find – it wasn't much, so sparse were the trees.

Thranduil hated these open plains, so near where he'd sat in a seven-year siege that cost him his father and two-thirds of his army. They should never have come here now – but how could any of them have known it was their coming which would trigger Von Ratched's idiocy?

If this was how they dealt with things, they would be doomed when Thorvald arrived.

He brushed the hair back from Lorna's brow. He would heal her, and by all rights he should leave her in safety away from him, but he could not do it. What he would do if _she_ left _him_, he did not know – it wouldn't be right to hold her, even if he actually could.

The fire crackled to life, and Menelwen fetched a bowl from his pack, filling it with water from one of his four canteens. Once it had warmed, they could begin.

Thranduil gently laid Lorna on the ground, his cloak serving as a pillow, and wiped the blood away from her nose with a handkerchief. He worked in silence, all his terrible cravings pushed firmly to the back of his mind, steeping athelas and smoothing the water over her brow. The sun rose, and with it, a little color returned to her face.

She slept another half hour when he was through – natural sleep, not the enforced unconsciousness he had willed upon her.

When she did wake, however, she it was with a vengeance. Her eyes snapped open, their vivid green a welcome sight as they focused on his face – and then she sat up and punched him. Hard.

_Really_ hard.

"I deserved that," he said, touching his jaw. She had to have put some of the force of her telekinesis into the blow, because even she wasn't _that_ strong.

She didn't respond in words – she just punched him again, even harder, knuckles cracking when her fist met his face. Thranduil didn't dare fight her, because he knew it would only go worse for him if he did; fists he could handle, but telekinesis he could not.

Never, ever had he seen her so angry. He'd never seen _anyone_ this angry – not even his father, whose rages had put his own to shame. His healing efforts must have worked, for there was no weakness to be in her at all. Her eyes burned like poison, like malevolent stars; if she felt any pain, physical or emotional, she certainly wasn't showing it.

Nor was she _speaking_. She only hit, again and again, knocking him backward onto the grass, her face disturbingly void of expression. Thranduil thought she might actually have cracked his jaw.

"Are you going to fight back or not?" she growled.

"I said I would not hurt you, Lorna," he said. "I meant it."

His words did not have the effect he'd hoped. Lorna looked suddenly weary, and vaguely disgusted.

"That's what my da always said to my mam," she said, rising to her feet. "And she always believed him, until next time."

He felt as though she'd kicked him in the chest. "Lorna –" he started, sitting up.

"Save it, Thranduil. I'll fix your brain, but then I'm going to Mordor. And you're not coming with me."

The mere thought chilled him, and he grabbed her hand, despite knowing it was probably a terrible idea. "It is not safe," he said.

The look she gave him was frigid as the ice of Helcaraxë. "Thranduil, so far the only thing in Middle-Earth that's hurt me is _you_."

He wanted to protest, but he couldn't, because it was true. The thought made him sick. "Do not hate me, Lorna," he said. "I could bear much, but not that."

She looked away, watching the sunrise. "I wish I could," she said softly. "The me I was a year ago would, without a shadow of a doubt. I still love you, Thranduil, even if I'd be smarter not to. I know you're not _really_ anything like my da, or I'd've…" she trailed off.

"Left?" he supplied.

Now she looked at him. "No," she said. "I'd've killed you, like I did him."

The flat conviction in her voice chilled him, because she meant every word of it. "I've failed you, Lorna," he said, "and badly so. I will atone for it – I swear it."

She stepped forward and touched his face, her fingers light against his skin. "I want to believe you, Thranduil," she said. "I want to believe so much it hurts, but how can I trust you?"

He rose, taking her hand in his. "We start by healing this infection. Then I spend the rest of both our lives proving myself to you. I want what we had back, Lorna. I want you to insult me, and call me terrible epessë, and insist that all my clothes are dresses. I would even let you finally shave off my eyebrows."

To his relief, Lorna actually smiled a little. "I shouldn't forgive you," she said. "Not so easily, but god_damn_ do you make that hard."

"Stay, Lorna," he said, brushing his fingers against her shoulder, as he dare not unsettle her by touching her face. "Even if you must sleep on the far end of the camp, with Menelwen or some other for a guard. Stay, and mock me, and be _you_. Do not let me have destroyed that." He paused. "I believe that when you were with child, you several times threatened to pee in my boot. If I must, I will leave my boots outside my tent, and you may do as you will with them."

Now she laughed, though it was weak and watery. "I'm not supposed to forgive you," she said. "I'm not meant to be one'v those women I always thought were daft, but I can't bloody help it." She shook her head, her levity fading. "I will tell you this, Thranduil: if you _ever_ do that again, I'll kill you."

"Lorna, if I am ever that sick once more, I would want you to." He meant it, too.

She hesitated, visibly torn. She was right; by all rights, she ought to punish him, to make his life an utter misery, at least for a time. Her problem was, he suspected, the same as his – hurting him would only also hurt her. "I need to go for a walk, Thranduil," she said, drawing her hand away. "I need a clear head, if we're to do anything for your brain, and then we need to figure out what the hell we're to do next.

"We will meet up with the nearest encampment, and go to Rohan. We must discover what the storm has done."

* * *

Oh dear. Poor Rohan. I know the last chapters have been pretty heavy, but things will be looking up in the next one, now that they're away from Von Arsehole (who is not finished with his mischief by a long shot).

Title means "Consequences" in Irish. As always, your reviews make my day.


	64. Breathnú

In which Lorna fixes Thranduil's brain (and freaks him right the fuck out in the process), Dain gets news he does not at all want to hear, Bilbo and Sméagol get in a running competition over who gets to teach Sharley Westron, and a certain someone decides it's high time he gets involved. Unfortunately for everyone.

* * *

Lorna wandered aimlessly, watching the sun rise golden in the east, kicking tufts of grass with her bare feet as she walked. Her hip hurt like a mad bastard, and the burns on her face stung in the morning breeze.

She was being an idiot, and she damn well knew it. She'd always wondered why her mam stayed with her da, but unfortunately, she understood it now.

Except that the situation wasn't the same at all. _Thranduil_ would never have done that – he was literally sick in the head, and this time it was not at all his fault. Von Ratched had done this to him, even if it hadn't been intentional. Thranduil might have mind-raped her, but only because he'd been mind-raped first, so what did she do about _that_? Forgiving him would, in effect, be condoning his behavior, but when his behavior wasn't of his own will…surely that changed things a bit, right? Or was she just making excuses, like Mam always did? God, don't let her be like Mam.

Like it or not, she'd already forgiven him. If she would ever really _trust_ him again was another matter entirely, and one over which she had no control at all. She wanted to go back to the way things had been, too, but she didn't know if that was even possible.

God damn Von Ratched. He'd wrecked everything, and he hadn't even _tried_. More than anything, Lorna wanted to hunt him down and kill him, but she knew now that that just wasn't possible. She – and everyone – had badly underestimated him, probably because he was human. And sure God were they paying for it now.

She wouldn't let him destroy what she had with Thranduil. She wouldn't let him win. She'd mock and tease, and maybe she really _would_ pee in Thranduil's boot. They'd moved past the first time this had happened, when it actually _was_ his fault – they could move past this, too. If they'd done it then, when they hadn't loved one another, they could damn well do it now. No matter how long it took.

It was with that thought that she returned to him and an incredibly uncomfortable Menelwen, and stood on her tiptoes to kiss his (already bruising) cheek. "Let's do this," she said.

* * *

Fortunately for Ratiri, he had no need to stab anyone in the brain-pan after all. The first zombie he tried to grabbed his wrist, actually rolled her bloody eyes, and wrenched the knife from his hand with embarrassing ease.

"Stop that," she said.

Wait, _English_? All right, obviously she wasn't from Middle-Earth, but he hoped like hell she hadn't come from _his_ Earth. He stared at her in open shock, unable to summon speech, his brain outright refusing to process what he'd just heard.

He jumped when one of Sigrid's bullets hit the woman in the head – and did absolutely nothing.

What.

"Will you tell her to cease? She is wasting her weaponry. Whatever it is."

Ratiri swallowed hard, but looked up to wave Sigrid off. She very understandably looked at him as though he had utterly lost his mind, but ceased fire.

"_Thank_ you. We must speak."

_Must we?_ he wondered. She probably wasn't going to give him much choice – small she might be, but her grip on his wrist was like iron. Shouldn't zombies be _weaker_ than humans? The strength of her had could rival an Elf's, and possibly surpass it.

He wouldn't lead her to the house, so she did it for him, dragging him along like a recalcitrant child. It was only marginally quieter inside, but at least they weren't being blasted by the wind. She didn't release him until the door was shut behind him, and when she did, he winced, rubbing his wrist. He knew already that it would bruise.

"What?" he asked, helpless. "Just…_what_?"

"We have come to help," she said simply. She was a short woman, Asian, though it was difficult to tell where _from_ in Asia beneath all that blood. She was so gory and disgusting that he would have expected her to stink, but she didn't smell at all. "You will need it soon. Thorvald is coming, and against him you are all but defenseless."

"Where have you come from?" he asked, his words almost drowned out by a booming clap of thunder.

"The Other," she said. "We have lurked there over a millennium now, waiting for him to wake again. I must speak with your leaders – you will have to prepare to withstand siege in that mountain."

_That_ was not a meeting that would in any way go well. He could imagine Dain's reaction, though he didn't want to. "I don't know how easy that will be."

"It will happen," she said firmly, "whether any of you like it or not."

_I was afraid of that_, he thought grimly.

* * *

Gandalf had not thought he could possibly find any amusement on this journey, but he was. He really, really was.

He could not say he was surprised that Bilbo's manners won out over his wariness of Sharley. The little hobbit was polite to a fault, even though she couldn't understand a word he said.

'At first' was the operative phrase, for he seemed determined to teach her Westron. Surprisingly, Sméagol apparently did not want to be outdone by 'the nasty Bagginses', and was actually trying to _help_. They would sit on either side of her in the evenings, each offering his own line of advice, but somehow she seemed to keep track of both.

Watching the three of them, it was very difficult for Gandalf to keep his laughter in check, for they were such an odd little trio. Sharley absolutely towered over Bilbo and Sméagol, and often looked rather bemused by them both – bemused, but not at all irritated, as many might have been. She was very obviously too baffled by the fact that they voluntarily sat near her to be annoyed.

They sat thus now, while Bilbo, ever fastidious, brewed tea. Sharley watched with interest; Sméagol, with sullen displeasure. They had yet to bring him to even try the tea, or eat cooked food – what he ate, none of them knew, or cared to.

"May I have a cup of tea?" Bilbo said, looking at her expectantly, and she repeated it slowly, turning over the unfamiliar syllables. Her accent was her biggest obstacle, though not half so much as Lorna's was to her.

Once she'd said it again, Bilbo poured her a mug, and she drank it while watching the sunrise. She had a fascination with sun and moon and stars that bordered on childlike, which jarred terribly with her appearance. Apparently, her world had no moon nor stars, and its sun was very different.

She'd relayed this to Bilbo in Sméagol in extremely halting Westron, which had left the former horrified and the latter envious. Last night Bilbo had spent a good hour pointing out all the constellations for her, having her repeat the names until she pronounced them right.

Her presence was good for him, because it meant he didn't worry over where they were going. That was left to Gandalf, who was growing very worried indeed.

He didn't know what the storm had brought, but he sensed it had brought _something_. The air of Middle-Earth had shifted yet again, but whether it heralded good, ill, or both, he did not know.

He had asked Sharley, but only received the truly aggravating facet of her powers – not only did she not know the future with any surety, she was uncertain of the _present_, too. All she could offer were guesses, and thus far he had liked none of them. All implied many obstacles on their road to Mordor, and one might well render their quest futile.

But he could not allow himself to think like that. They had a task before them – let others deal with everything else. Their own part in this tale was direct and clear, if also very difficult.

Thranduil would almost certainly have let for Gondor by now, which would mean Legolas ruled in his stead, and would thus be the one who had to deal with the problem of Sméagol. Gandalf did not envy him _that_ at all.

"I should warn you, Sharley," he said, knocking the ashes out of his pipe, "in several days, we will stop to meet someone you may find strange."

She looked up from her mug. "Beorn? I met him on my way here. He tried to kill me, then he gave me breakfast. And a new shirt."

That…sounded just about right, especially if he had been in bear-form when he met her. The bear would have acted on instinct, and probably been very surprised.

Bilbo might not have understood her, but he recognized the name. "Are we stopping by Beorn's, Gandalf?"

"I think it wise. Apparently Sharley has already met him, so it will not be like our first meeting." He'd been half afraid poor Beorn would have a stroke at the sight of so many Dwarves in his yard. At least Sharley was only one person – though there was also Sméagol to consider. _He_ might not prove welcome.

Though at the moment, he looked harmless enough – indeed, he was trying to catch Sharley's attention rather like a child. Gandalf didn't let it fool him, though; Sméagol was still very dangerous, held in check only by whatever odd power she had over him.

When they started off, he scampered ahead, muttering to himself. He still rarely walked upright, and hated the sun, but he was willing to travel in daylight now.

"He is broken," Sharley said. "There are two of him, and I think there always will be, no matter how much he heals. Some damage is permanent."

"I am afraid you are right. He will never have a normal life again," Gandalf sighed.

"Normal? No," she said. "But he can have _a_ life, which is more than he's had in almost five hundred years. Maybe he'll start aging normally, now that he doesn't have the Ring – maybe he'll live a hell of a lot longer – but it's something." She paused. "It's Bilbo who confuses me. There aren't many outside the Other who'll voluntarily spend time around me, and I know I still make him nervous sometimes, so why does he do it?"

Gandalf looked at her. The golden sunshine almost made her seem alive, lending some color to her unnaturally pale face. "Bilbo is an extraordinary little fellow," he said. "You wouldn't know it to look at him, but there is a quiet strength in him hard as steel."

"_That_ I did notice," she said. "I just didn't expect him to be so…helpful. He doesn't have to be."

"In his mind, he does. His manners are engraved in his bones, and he believes that being unsettled by you is terribly rude." He did not add that Bilbo pitied her to an extent, because she would not appreciate hearing it. In time, perhaps the pair could actually be friends, but not if she knew he felt sorry for her right now.

"The world needs more of him," Sharley said. "It'd be a better place."

"You know, I can't understand you, but I _do _know my own name," Bilbo complained, turning to glower at them.

Gandalf chuckled. "She says that the world needs more people like you."

To his increasing amusement, Bilbo actually blushed.

* * *

The fog was trying to rise again in Thranduil's mind, and he fought it with a desperation he had seldom known.

He knew he did not truly deserve the second chance Lorna was giving him, and he was not going to ruin it before she even gave it. The fog wanted him to take her, to persuade her to allow him into her mind willingly, despite knowing that was impossible. Whatever else he did, he could not allow the urge to overpower him.

So he sat beside the fire, ignoring the very nervous Menelwen, trying to master his own mind. He would not let Lorna touch it until he was absolutely certain he could control himself. The problem with that was that with this, there could _be_ no certainty. He dare not trust himself, or the fog would take over.

The sun was well up by the time Lorna returned, looking far more sanguine. How could anyone so tiny project such an air of strength? It was not physical, because she was obviously weary, but there was nevertheless an aura of power about her. Her hair was a snarled mess, there were dark smudges under her eyes, but to him, even if to no one else, she was beautiful.

"Let's do this," she said, sitting beside him. "Menelwen, if he fucks up, boot him in the head."

Menelwen choked on a nervous laugh, but Thranduil had little doubt she'd actually do it. He might be her King, but Lorna was her friend, and he knew where her loyalty truly lay between them. Just now, he counted that fortunate; if he couldn't trust himself, he trusted her to intervened.

"Truly, Menelwen – if it becomes necessary, do it. I will not hold it against you." It could not hurt to assure her she would suffer no punishment, should she actually kick him in the head.

"Yes, my lord," she said, audibly dubious.

He turned to Lorna, concerned by her evident weariness. Even with her nap, she had had little sleep yesterday. "We do not have to do this now," he said.

"Yes, we do. I don't dare go to sleep until we have."

That hurt, but it was only intelligent. Even he didn't fully trust himself around Lorna, should she fall asleep now – and Menelwen, despite her good intentions, would not be able to stop him. She was well-trained and a skilled fighter, but he was far older and more experienced. Killing her would not be unduly difficult.

"Hold still," Lorna said, laying hr hand on his face. It was small and rough and Edain-warm, and it cut through the fog like nothing else had yet managed.

Allowing her into his mind without trapping her was one of the most difficult things he had ever done. Her mental touch was delicate as her physical could not be, with what her people would call surgical precision, though he did not fully understand the term.

Thranduil had so feared harming her that he had absolutely no warning of what she did next. And what she did terrified him.

When it came to both power and skill, he far outmatched her. What had not occurred to him – and possibly not to her, until now – was that while her strength and ability might be very inferior to his, it was also very _different_, and in one way at least he was entirely unprepared to defend himself.

Somehow, through some sorcery he could not understand, she had mentally paralyzed him – every ounce of power he had was still there, but he could not access it, and though it did not hurt, it was the most horrible sensation he had ever known.

His first instinct, thankfully subsumed, was to break her neck. What was she _doing_ to him? She was _Edain_ ¬– a powerful Edain, but an Edain nonetheless.

_Calm your tits_, she sent him. _This'll only hurt if you struggle._

Even through his horrified revulsion, he recognized how wrong _that_ sounded. _What are you doing?_

_If it works, I'll let you know. Now shut up – you're distracting me._

Shut up he did, and forced himself to hold still. Lorna had made him feel many things, but until now, fear was not one of them. Oh, he'd been afraid _for_ her, but not _of_ her, because they had both known she could not do him any real harm. Now, though…in this state, if she wanted, she wouldn't need her telekinesis to kill him. She could drive him mad with a stray thought.

For the first time, he realized the sheer level of faith she must have had in him, to voluntarily allow him into her mind for so many months. She had known all along that he could destroy her, but she had let him in anyway. Knowing that he had possibly irrevocably shattered that trust was like a blade to his heart, because he knew Lorna – her trust was not easily or lightly given, and such a breaking of it must have wounded her terribly.

_I said calm your tits. We can hash all that out later, once I've had a nap._

He still had no idea what she was doing, for her presence scarcely registered in his mind. If she was at all stemming his infection, he could not feel it. He could not feel anything, and that too was terrifying.

They sat thus for hours, until finally the fog lifted, and with it the terrible craving. Lorna, her face grey with exhaustion, removed her hand from his.

"Lay down," she ordered.

Thranduil blinked at her. "What?"

"Lay _down_. I'm tired as fuck, and you're a better mattress than the ground."

"You would trust me enough to sleep near me?" he asked, incredulous.

"I don't trust you worth a damn, but you know that if you try to get in my head again, you'll kill me," she said bluntly. "If I go to sleep and actually wake up again, it'll give me a reason to bother trying to trust you again."

It was logical, if rather horrible. The craving was gone, but they had no way of knowing yet if it was temporary or permanent.

Still, if it would restore her faith in him, even marginally, it was worth a try. Lie down he did, resisting his urge to stroke her hair when she rested her head on his chest. Instinct told him it would be long before she felt comfortable having his hands near her face, but this was a start.

* * *

The receiving hall of Erebor was filled with the walking dead, and Dain was _severely_ unsettled.

There were dozens of them, pallid and bloody-eyed men and women, all of whom refused seating. An unusually pale Arandur translated for the woman who spoke for them – words Dain really did not want to hear.

"Thorvald may well bring with him darkness," Arandur said. "Darkness that will kill all it touches. Those of Dale must take shelter in this mountain, and none set foot outside it until the darkness has passed."

_That_ was not what he needed to hear. They didn't have the provisions for that – nor would they, until the harvest. "And how long will _that_ last?" he asked, not certain he wanted the answer.

Arandur asked, and translated the reply. "Until Thorvald is dead, most likely. King Dain, if you cannot support all of Dale, some can be sent to the Halls of the Woodland Realm. If this becomes a protracted siege, it might be easier on your food stores."

The last thing Dain wanted was to ask those blasted tree-huggers for help, but he couldn't let his own pride allow his people and Bard's to starve. "Would that Prince of yours let them in?"

"Of course he would," Arandur said. "We would be taking in those of Esgaroth anyway. There is room in the halls for far more people than actually live there." A further sentence lurked in his expression, unspoken: _Legolas is not his father._ Not that Thranduil, as he was now, would be likely to turn anyone away, either. Even so, Dain was glad he'd gone for a while. This was enough to deal with.

* * *

In the tower of Barad-Dûr, Sauron watched. And he worried.

He had seen the arrival of the first strangers in his Palantír, and dismissed them. Mortals, all of them, powerful for their kind but ultimately insignificant. What he had _not_ seen was the arrival of the one who lurked in Minas Tirith – how long had that one been there, escaping his notice?

The Palantír did not show him. It had a difficult time focusing on any of them, its eye never lingering for long. And then the _other_ appeared.

What it was, he did not know, for the Palantír could not find it _at all_. It had done something truly massive to the ruins of Angmar, but the creature itself eluded his sight. Whatever it was, it rivaled him in power, thought it was doubtful it was so cunning.

But now, on top of everything else, a truly staggering number of dead walked the face of Middle-Earth. They had come from the storms, all at once, though their destination and purpose were unknown to him.

He needed to capture one of them, as well as the two nearest mortal strangers. He must know what they knew, and then they must be eradicated.

It was time for the Nine to ride forth once more.

* * *

Dun dun duuunnnn. Yep, it's about time you got off your ass, Sauron.

Title means "Watching" in Irish. As always, your reviews fuel the slightly rusty engine of my brain.


	65. Stair agus Todhchaí

In which Ratiri, Katje, and Geezer witness something they really wish they could un-see, Sharley is maternal (for Gollum, of all people), and Lorna and Von Ratched both get to deal with Nazgûl (and Lorna decides she needs to jump her husband's bones as she gets a chance).

* * *

Lorna was honestly surprised that she actually woke up. She'd had no idea if what she'd done had actually worked, but it must have, given that, you know, she was still alive. She really hoped that was a good sign.

Sure, when she sat up she found Thranduil watching her like a creeper, but he'd always done that. His eyes were clear, with none of the madness or hunger that had so terrified her yesterday. It was evening now – damn, she'd apparently needed that nap more than she thought – and the setting sun stained his hair red.

"Hi," she said. "I'm still alive."

He arched an eyebrow. "That you are. Did you _really_ think you wouldn't be?"

"Well, I wasn't exactly _sure_," she said, shoving the hair out of her face. "I mean, it's not like what I did last time worked."

He sat with her, carding his fingers through the ends of her hair. "Last time you did not _paralyze my mind,_" he said. "How did you do that? How did you _think_ to do that?"

"I got the idea from Von Ratched," she admitted, "in the other timeline. At one point, after I'd managed to shut him out'v my mind, he did the same thing to me." Thank God he hadn't done much with it, because what he _had_ done was creepy enough – and was part of why Thranduil's form of pleasurable mind-rape had so horrified her. Not that she was _ever_ telling him that. He was going to be guilty enough as it was, and while he should be, there were limits. He didn't need to be feeling remorse for someone's else's actions – especially actions that had only happened in her memories of what never was.

Even without elaboration, he looked stricken, so she poked him in the ribs. "All our shit's still in Minas Tirith, isn't it?"

Thranduil said nothing, so Menelwen said, "Yes, it is."

"Well, fuck. Okay, you, Mister, aren't going anywhere near that damn city. Menelwen, I'm going to go get our crap and drag everyone after me. _You_ are going to knock this idiot down and sit on him if you have to, so that he doesn't follow me."

"But Von Ratched is there," he protested.

"You would be amazed how little I care. Let me handle that fucker, if he even dares show his face. I'm about ready to rip his head off and shit down the hole." _Thank you for that one, Geezer._

Menelwen choked, and Thranduil actually laughed, though there wasn't any real humor in it.

"While that is an evocative image, you are far too short," he said, and it relieved her, that he could at least try to tease.

"Telekinesis, baby," she said, giving him a crooked smile. "Seriously, trust me. Von Ratched can't afford to make a giant scene and get himself noticed. He can erase people's memories, but that _many_ people? He's not going to risk it, unless he's a hell'v a lot stupider than I thought." Which was always possible, but she doubted it. From all knew of him, what she'd seen both here and in the other timeline, he liked to stay unseen. It would probably take a lot more than her collecting the Elves and their stuff to make him blow his cover. She didn't really want to know what it would take, actually.

"Take care of yourself, Lorna," he said. "And take the elk."

"I'm not taking the elk. I can't get on him by myself, and I'd break my neck trying to get off him."

"You will need him to carry our things. If you can move things with your mind, why can you not make yourself mount and dismount?"

"I don't know," Lorna grumbled. "I just can't." And not for want of trying, either; she'd spent countless, silent hours trying to make herself fly, to no avail whatsoever. It wasn't fair at all.

"Still, take the elk. He is far more intimidating than Menelwen's horse, and you may need that. As it stands, you are rather lacking in that at the moment."

"I look like a total wreck, huh?" she said. She never had brushed her hair after yesterday's sexcapades; it was probably an incurable rat's nest.

"Somewhat," Thranduil said, clearly trying to soften the blow. "Though once someone sees you up close, I doubt they will try to interfere. You _can_ be rather terrifying, when you make the effort."

"Aren't you sweet," she said, and actually meant it. She probably shouldn't find her husband calling her scary to be sweet, but it wasn't lie either of them were exactly normal. "Fine, but I need you to give me a boost. I really doubt the elk would appreciate me trying to climb him like a tree."

"That he would not. Come – let us get this over with. The sooner you go, the sooner you can come back."

* * *

Sharley didn't know what to make of her two teachers, and especially Bilbo, so she'd eventually quit trying, and simply enjoyed their presence.

Bilbo was such a fastidious little person, even while camping, and a very patient teacher. She had never had a gift for languages, and Westron was entirely unlike English or the secret language of the Other, spoken by very few. Even with his coaching, she knew her pronunciation was atrocious, but he never grew impatient with her. He might only be doing this out of politeness, but that was a hell of a lot more than she got from most people.

They'd bypassed the old goblin-tunnels, despite the fact that it lengthened their journey. She didn't mind, and she didn't think anyone else did, either – Sméagol in particular seemed happy to give the place a wide berth. He still hated sunshine, but she suspected he hated the idea of returning to that darkness more.

He was also quite jealous of Bilbo, so Sharley made a point of sitting with him at night. For whatever reason, he needed far less sleep than Bilbo, and so had her undivided attention once the sun went down. He was a lot like a child with an unwanted sibling, so she took care to let him know he wasn't being replaced. So far, it seemed to be working.

It was nearing midnight now, their campfire burned down to coals, Bilbo sound asleep on the other side of it. Gandalf puffed his pipe and stared into the darkness, while Sméagol showed her what remained of the small creatures he had caught for his dinner. It was a good thing she no longer had a gag reflex.

"You are good hunter," she said in Westron, or tried to. Hey, it was true, even if it was also _really_ fucking creepy.

_"Nice one,"_ Jimmy snickered.

"She says we is good, precious," he said to himself. She really wished she knew how his fractured mind worked. Sméagol was the childlike one, but Gollum was something else entirely – something she was glad to be seeing less and less of. Gollum and his malevolence would have been right at home in the Other; seldom in her life had she seen such pure, concentrated _hatred_. If not for the odd power she had over him, he would have killed Bilbo a week ago.

She couldn't fix him, but perhaps, if she praised Sméagol, that personality would win out over Gollum. Everyone liked a little praise every once in a while, and so far, everything she'd said had been technically true. He _was_ good at hunting and fishing and climbing – it was just that the results of all three tended to be disgusting, and she tried to keep them out of Bilbo's sight. The poor hobbit did _not_ need to see that.

"You sleep, Sméagol," she said. "Long tomorrow."

"Sharley never sleeps," he pointed out.

"Sharley cannot sleep." She didn't know nearly enough Westron to be able to explain _why_, but he didn't need to know that yet. He didn't roll with things nearly as well as Bilbo. "Sharley is different."

"How?" Sméagol asked. "Why?"

"I cannot…tell?" It wasn't the word she wanted, but close enough. "Not talk enough."

Thankfully, he seemed to understand that. To her relief, he left it at that, curling into a ball on the ground.

"You are good with him," Gandalf said in English.

"I have a child," he said, "and he's a lot like one. The thing with kids is that you can't outright lie to them – you just have to edit the truth when it comes to nasty things. Kids'll usually spot a total lie, and resent and not trust you because of it."

"Thus far it appears to be working. I do fear that he will not wish to be separated from you when we reach the Wood-Elves."

She was pretty afraid of that herself, actually. "Marty's there," she said. "She'll look after him. If he really does look at me like some kinda mother, he's gotta get used to having a sister." Unlike Bilbo, Marty had never done Sméagol any wrong, real or imagined, and Marty wasn't likely to blink twice at him. She had, after all, lived in the Other for almost fifty years. Mentally she was still five years old, and likely always would be, but she also had wisdom that only came with age. It was a weird combination, but it would work in their favor.

"I hope you are right," Gandalf said.

"Me too."

* * *

The last thing in the world Katje wanted right now was to actually have to talk to the zombies, but the woman, whose name was Chi, was rather insistent. The three of them met up in Dain's study, and Katje was not at all ashamed of sitting as far away from Chi as she could.

At least few lamps were lit, so that not every detail of the woman's gory face was rendered in stark relief. Summer though it was, a low fire burned in the grate; outside of the forge, heating in a cave was rather difficult.

"You three are at the most risk," Chi said, "should Thorvald arrive. He is the reason I and all my people died."

"How did that _happen_?" Ratiri asked, from the far side of Dain's desk. "Obviously it was a disease, but how did it not wind up in our history books?"

"We were often lumped in with victims of ordinary plague," Chi said. "As to how he did it – if any of us knows the true source of the infection, they have not shared it with the rest of us. It spreads through touch, and as the symptoms are not immediately evident, it spread easily. Normal people can carry it without sickening, but as soon as they touched one of the gifted, the infection passed to them. It wiped out our population in Europe and Asia.

"Those in the lands you call the Americas, and the continent of Africa, were largely spared, but the general populations of the Americas were devastated when Europeans arrived, and parts of Africa were as well. They took many gifted with them."

She paused. "I would show you, if you would allow it. I would have you see why it is imperative you isolate yourself, should he ignite this plague again."

Katje did not like that idea _at all_, but if Ratiri and Geezer agreed, she could hardly say no. When they nodded the affirmative, she did as well.

_Chi had lived in a small village in China, no different from a thousand others. Her parents had just arranged her marriage when the plague hit – fortunately to a man she actually liked, even if he was nearly twenty years older than her. Though he was normal himself, his sister secretly was not, so Chi need not hide her gift from him. They were not allowed to spend much time together before the wedding, but they'd both grown up in the same village, so it was not as though they didn't know one another._

_Her life was looking to be a pleasant one, until there came pounding on her family's door at two in the morning._

_Chi's mother was the village's healer, so such knocks were not uncommon. Rarely, however, were they filled with such desperation. Chi's mother lit a candle, pulling a robe on over her nightclothes, and Chi, apprentice to her, did the same._

_It was Seung, wide-eyed and terrified, and the sight of him made Chi's heart lurch. He was a stoic man; he would not panic so unless something very grave had happened. "Bai is ill," he said, out-of-breath from the run. "_Very _ill."_

_Strangely, as they hurried through the silent village, what Chi remembered most was the moonlight, pale and bright and serene, silvering the thatch of the roofs. The chilly air was breathless and still, and clammy with dew, the mud soft beneath her slippered feet. Seung and her mother spoke, in low, urgent tones, but she no longer remembered what they said. In the end, it did not matter; what_ mattered _was Bai._

_Shadowing her mother, who was occasionally called to other villages, Chi had seen some terrible diseases: dysentery, cholera, even plague. Her mother was famed for her ability to heal almost all, though few knew her skill came from a gift of her own._

_What they saw in Bai was worse than plague. She lay pale and feverish on her sleeping mat, the tracery of veins dark beneath skin that had almost grown translucent. Her glazed eye were filled with blood that leaked down her face like monstrous tears, and her breathing was as labored as one in the last stages of the consuming sickness._

_Chi's mother froze so suddenly that Chi ran into her back. "When did this start?"_

_"She had a fever this evening," Seung said, stirring up the fire to grant them more light. "We both thought little of it, for it was not high. She went to bed in the hope that it would burn itself out in the night. I went to sleep myself, but I was woken by her breathing. This is how I found her."_

_Chi's mother knelt beside Bai, but when she laid a hand on the girl's brow, she immediately snatched it away. "Seung, go gather water," she ordered. "You should not witness this."_

_He left, and Chi knelt beside her mother. The dance of the firelight cast twisting shadows over Bai's face, rendering it nearly inhuman. "Mother, what is it?" she asked._

_"Feel her brow," her mother said. "With such a fever, I do not know how she still lives."_

_Chi did as instructed, and like her mother, immediately withdrew her hand. Touching Bai's skin was like laying her hand on a hot coal – Chi would not be surprised if her fingers blistered later. Bai gave no sign that she was aware of their presence. Chi was not surprised; with a fever so high, her brain must be cooking within her skull._

_"Mother," she said helplessly, "what do we _do_?"_

_"What we can," her mother said grimly, "though I know it will not be enough. This malady is…alien. Never have I felt anything like it. Seung must be isolated, as must we. We cannot risk this spreading to the rest of the village."_

_It was very rare that her mother lost a patient, and always she knew when she would. She did what she could to make them comfortable before they passed, but there would be no comforting Bai. Chi could not imagine the agony she must be suffering._

_A month later, there was no need to imagine; the sickness felled both Chi and her mother, who sweated their lives away in isolation, tended only by Seung and her faithful father. Mercifully, Chi remembered little of it – there was only pain, more than anyone ought to endure, followed by darkness and oblivion._

_And then she woke as a monster, and had known not a moment of peace since._

Katje had to fight hard not to gag, and when she looked at Geezer, his face was pretty green. Ratiri didn't look sick – but then, he _was_ a doctor. Though his voice, when he spoke, was unsteady.

"Hemorrhagic fever," he said. "Similar to Marburg or Ebola in presentation. I have – I have never heard of fevers that high, however. How did it burn itself out, if normal people can carry hit?" His expression might be calm, but his eyes were hollow and horrified.

"Terrible as this sounds, the plagues were a boon to the few of us who survived," Chi said. "Some isolated themselves, and stayed isolated for half a century. Even when they emerged, they stayed away from large groups. In another two generations, all who carried our sickness had died out, and the Great Plague of the fourteenth century made certain it would never rise again. Until, perhaps, now."

Thought of dying so horribly made Katje shudder. She didn't care if she had to spend the rest of her life underground – she'd do it, if it was the only way to avoid that…_that_.

"So what do we have to do?" Ratiri asked.

"Prepare for a siege,," Chi said. "Possibly a very long one."

* * *

Lorna's nap had wholly reinvigorated her, though she knew that some of her energy was bolstered by mounting anger. She pushed the elk onward, plotting, if not Von Ratched's murder, at least ways to make his life a total misery.

The sun had set by the time she reached Minas Tirith, which she found abuzz with people. Apparently Von Ratched's burning house had caught both buildings to either side on fire, which was a neat trick, considering everything was built of stone. She could smell the remnants of it even down here in the first level.

Wisely, she left the elk at the city gates, not wanting to attract any more attention than she already had. She shoved her way through the crowd, heedless of who she kicked or elbowed, until she reached the guards' quarters on the fourth level.

Naturally, most of them weren't there, so she sent Faelon and Huoriel to find the rest, promising to explain later. At least, being Elves, they hadn't strewn all their shit all over, so packing would be easy.

Hunting down Von Ratched, she knew, was not wise, but she couldn't resist. He knew that he couldn't actually kill her, but if she could get the location of his weapon out of him, _she_ would happily kill _him_. Stopping his heart would work just fine, even if she didn't think it nearly as painful as he deserved.

His mind stood out like a beacon on the sixth level, so off she went, elbowing her way through a crowd of people whose armpits were all very much in working order. None of them paid her any mind, because really, why would they? She didn't stick out like Von Ratched.

Her bloodlust only grew as she kicked her way through the torchlit city, but as soon as she spotted Von Ratched, who looked to be trying to salvage things from the wreck of his home, a deep, formless dread filled her, gripping her heart in razor claws. It was not on his account – it could not be, for he froze, pale even in the dimness, his eyes wide. What in the _shit_?

The urge to run for cover was too strong, and she was not alone in heeding it. Cries of bewildered alarm filled the air, but she couldn't see what might be _causing_ them – what the hell was going on _now_?

A screeching the like of which she'd never heard in her life split the air, so loud she was afraid it would burst her eardrums. In this press, she'd never made it under cover.

_Nazgûl_. Thranduil had memory of it: once a king of Men, twisted into Sauron's servant. There were _nine_ of the damn things, and Thranduil –

Thranduil was out on an open plane, with only Menelwen for aid.

_Fuck._

Telekinesis was useful for one thing, at least: she could literally throw people out of the way as she fled back down to the gates, trying to master the pants-crappingly horrible fear that was rising up her throat. She flung people out of her way like tenpins, heedless of the curses she received, racing as fast as she could. The other Elves could figure things out without her. She'd just got Thranduil back – there was no way she was losing him to some ring-bearing zombie on a flying dinosaur.

Somebody's elbow hit her nose, which of course spouted blood like a damn fountain, running hot and salty over her lips. She didn't know if she kicked the right person for it, and didn't care.

The Nazgûl screeched again, and the horror of it nearly drove her to her knees. It was only the thought of Thranduil and Menelwen that kept her going – she hoped like hell the elk hadn't run, or she was going to have to steal someone's horse, which would take time she didn't have.

Mercifully, when she burst through the gates, breathless, terrified, and totally furious, the poor creature was still there. He made no objection to Lorna trying to climb him like a tree – even knelt to help her, which he had sure as hell never done before.

"Let's go get our Thranduil," she said, gripping handfuls of his fur in an effort to actually stay seated. If she fell off, she'd probably break both her legs.

She nearly fell off anyway when he broke into a dead run, his footing steady and sure even with only the light of the half-moon. Christ, he felt almost as fast as Liam's motorcycle, his legs practically eating the distance.

And yet, fast as he went, the terror didn't diminish. The Nazgûl wasn't following them, so why was she still ready to piss herself?

The rider that approached from the east was all the answer she needed. In the moonlight, it was nothing but a black cloak, face invisible beneath the hood. Not that she probably wanted to see its face.

Lorna's eyes narrowed. There was no way the horse could catch up with the elk's longer stride, but she didn't need that damn thing on her six. She might be vehemently against animal cruelty, but in this case she had no choice but to make an exception. At least she could make it quick.

Gathering the threads and staying on the elk was not an easy proposition, but she managed it out of sheer stubbornness, and when she had them, she pulled – _hard._

The sound the horse's neck made when it snapped would haunt her to her dying day, and so would the shriek of its Rider, spilled suddenly onto the grass. Her heart thundered, dark satisfaction surging through her veins, fierce and all-consuming – and, when a second Rider approached, she seized on it with a glee that bordered on sadistic, killing its horse and throwing it as far as she could.

"That's what you get, you fuckers," she growled, spitting the blood that had passed through her lips. "You stay the goddamn fuck away from my husband and my friend."

The third appeared as if from nowhere, and now she was _really_ furious. If they weren't capable of learning, she'd goddamn well this one a lesson it would never forget.

She didn't grab the horse this time. Now she snatched at the cloak, ripping it away to reveal a suit of rather spiky armor that looked to be occupied by nothing. You couldn't kill what was already dead, but she could damn well pry the thing out of its shell.

She grabbed bits of armor at random, ripping them away with a force that left her breathless, and hurling them as far as she could in every direction. The thing screeched at her, trying to draw its sword, and she twisted apart the gauntlet on its hand with a tearing shriek of metal, the sword falling uselessly at the ground.

The thing still had its legs when she passed, so she killed its horse for good measure. They weren't far now from Thranduil and Menelwen, and the other five had best hope they hadn't got there first.

If they were out with the rest of them, they'd finally learned their lesson. She saw no more before she reached Thranduil, Menelwen, and the roaring campfire they'd built.

"Get packed, kids," she said. "Five more'v those little shits to go, and then I'm going to find a nice secluded place to sex up my husband." Maybe it was the adrenaline, but the sight of him in the firelight, tall and strong, hair aglow and sword drawn, was just about the hottest thing she'd ever seen in her life. His eyes burned brighter than the fire, determined and ancient, and when she hopped off the elk, she stood on her tiptoes to give him an extremely bloody kiss.

Minas Tirith was a long way off, but Elven hearing was keen, and that first horrible, shrieking cry had nearly frozen Thranduil's blood. It had been a thousand years since he heard it last, but memory had not softened its impact.

He'd snatched up his sword, determined to head for Minas Tirith, but for once, Menelwen had been wiser than he.

"On an open plain, we could be snatched right off the ground, my lord," she said. "Lorna will have reached the city by now. She is safer there than we are here."

She was right, little though that helped. They built up the fire as high as they could, for fire was one of the few things those creatures feared.

The screeching on the ground nearly broke his resolve, but before she could do something unutterably stupid, Lorna came riding out of the dark, hair tangled around her like a shroud, eyes bright and face bloody – she looked like nothing so much as a tiny avenging Vala. The light in her eyes bordered on unholy, and he wondered just what she had been doing in his absence.

He tasted her blood when they kissed, but he didn't care. She was alive, and more than alive; he could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest.

"You've actually been _enjoying_ yourself, haven't you?" he asked suspiciously.'

"You bet your sexy arse I have," she said. "There's three Riders without horses, and one without half its body. Let's deal with these fuckers, and then I'm going to drag you somewhere private and shag you senseless. Deal?"

Looking down at those burning eyes, he had no choice but to agree. "Deal. You do realize that they cannot truly be killed?"

"Oh, I know, We can just make their day suck so much they'll run crying home to Mammy."

"Daddy," he corrected. "Very well. It has been a while since I have truly wrecked someone's day out of malice aforethought."

"That's the spirit."

* * *

Naturally, it would take Nazgûl to get Lorna and Thranduil to work through their issues. The damn things certainly do put things into perspective.

Title means "History and Future" in Irish. As always, your review are what keep me going.


	66. An torann Scriú

In which Lorna and Von Ratched both fuck shit up, Katje has a conversation with Arandur that convinces her Eru must seriously hate humans, and Sauron is still having a hell of a time figuring out what the fuck is going on.

* * *

Fuck this. Fuck absolutely _everything_.

Terror was not an emotion with which Von Ratched was familiar, but he was becoming intimately acquainted with it now. In this case, though, he thought he could be forgiven, since everyone and everything in Middle-Earth was terrified of the Nazgûl except their master.

Sauron would not have sent them out if he didn't know Von Ratched was here, so there was no point in hiding any longer. If Sauron was aware of him, he ought also to know what Von Ratched could _do._

Galling though it was, he stood no chance against the Nazgûl itself. The damn things were effectively immortal, and powerful though he was, he didn't dare touch its mind. That left telekinesis – which, fortunately, he was very, very good at. He'd been surprised by Lorna's ability, but it was no match for his own.

Forcing his fear and horror as far back into his mind as it would go, he focused on the flying thing, ignoring the cacophony of screaming around him. The air displaced by its great leathery wings reeked of decay, but it was a scent he was well used to.

The lines around the huge beast were heavy and strong, and he smiled as he gathered them, following its movement. It had been a while since he could exert the full force of his telekinesis, and he felt a perverse sense of anticipation.

He waited until the thing was not quite overhead before he pulled – until the Nazgûl would land near him when it fell. The beast was only part of the problem, and the lesser; the real challenge would be the Nazgûl itself.

Now – now was his perfect window of opportunity. Using every ounce of finesse he had, he pulled, and the creature came apart. Its skin split like rotten fruit, spilling a dark rain of blood and stinking guts. The volume of screams ratcheted up two levels as it hit all the people below, but Von Ratched hardly cared; they ought to be thankful there were no pieces of carcass large enough to crush someone.

The Nazgûl, on the other hand, could – and did, from the sound of it. When it rose like some great unfurling shadow, it drew its sword, the blade shining in the torchlight.

"I think not," Von Ratched said, his will bolstered by the sheer force of his own arrogance – arrogance that was well-deserved. He might be far from the most powerful being in Middle-Earth, but he was no weakling, and he knew how to best use the power he had.

"_You_," the thing hissed, but it got no further, for Von Ratched seized it and _squeezed._ The spirits of the Nazgûl were immortal; their _bodies_, however, were not, and were little more durable than the men they had once been. He crushed this one like a beer can, using its own armor against hit.

It shrieked in outrage as its form collapsed, and Von Ratched smiled.

"Tell your master I am waiting," he said. "Should you return to my city, you will receive the same welcome." Unless Sauron decided to stir himself from his tower, Minas Tirith would be unbreachable while he lived.

Perhaps, Von Ratched thought, it was time to step out of the shadows. Perhaps it was time to rule in name as well as truth.

* * *

Now that Lorna they had Lorna to deal with any aerial attack, Thranduil was willing to return to the city, and hut whatever incautious Nazgûl they might find along the way.

However, even as the sky paled with dawn, they saw nothing of the remaining five – which worried Thranduil immensely. They had learned from Lorna's dealings with their three brethren, which surely meant they'd gone elsewhere to make their own horrible brand of mischief. The garrisons he'd left behind were large, but there would be no dealing with one of those _things_ that would not result in some loss of life.

He also wondered why their airborne leader had not descended on the three of them – at least, he wondered until he saw its monstrous mount literally fall apart in midair, as thoroughly destroyed as though it had been hit by a missile from Lorna's world. Even the Dwarves had yet to craft such weapons; surely the men of Minas Tirith could not have managed it. That left but one chilling option.

"Okay," Lorna said, "I did _not_ know Von Ratched could do that. _I_ sure as hell couldn't."

That was not at all a comforting thought, and Thranduil's arm tightened around her. He had badly, _badly_ underestimated that man – mortal he might be, and inferior in mental prowess to Elves, but his mastery of telekinesis was downright obscene, and in _that_ he had no competition native to Middle-Earth save the wizards, who had for the most part bound their powers. So far as Thranduil or anyone else knew, Von Ratched's only rival was Lorna, and while she possibly equaled him in strength, he was obviously far superior at actually _using_ it. Lorna relied on brute force, but, fittingly for a healer, Von Ratched had a much finer touch.

Prior to their arrival in Minas Tirith, Thranduil had not been unduly worried by the man, but he was certainly worried now.

Thought of sending Lorna into that city alone again almost wasn't to be borne, but they had no choice. He did not dare go anywhere near Von Ratched again – the man could never be allowed to discover what he could do to Elves simply by touching their minds, and Thranduil was unwilling to risk forcing Lorna to fix him once more.

At least now they knew she could paralyze his mind if she needed to, but that was not a sensation he ever cared to feel again. It had not been painful in the least, but somehow that only made it worse. Knowing that his wife could do that to him was beyond unsettling.

He, the elk, and Menelwen waited at the gate, while the rising sun painted the walls gold. Lorna, looking rather deranged with her wild hair and the remnants of dried blood crusted under her nose, marched into the city, and all who saw her scrambled out of her way.

"I did not expect this visit to be quite so…eventful, my lord," Menelwen said.

"Nor did I," Thranduil said dryly. "I do not think we shall visit again until Von Ratched has been dealt with."

"_Can_ he be dealt with, my lord?"

"He is mortal, Menelwen. If nothing else, we can simply wait for him to die."

Some morbid part of Lorna wanted to find Von Ratched, just so she could see what he'd done to the Nazgûl, but she knew it was a terrible idea. She'd make sure the Elves were locked, loaded, and provisioned, and then they were getting the hell out of here.

Fortunately, Faelon and Huoriel appeared to have already done that for her – when she reached the stables, she found the group already loading their horses, apparently as eager to get out of the damn city as she was. This had been an all-round clusterfuck, and she wished like hell they'd never left home.

"Where are we going?" Faelon asked, buckling the last strap of his pack.

"Rohan," Lorna said. "Thranduil wants to go see what that storm did, and I just want to get the fuck out'v here. There's a couple Nazgûl without horses, and one without most'v himself, but the other five are still loose, so yeah. There's…that."

Faelon stared at her, then shook his head. "Of course they would have to get involved," he sighed. "Of _course_ they would. As if things were not dire enough already."

"Yeah, well, what can you do? Aside from pull their legs off," she said. "Let's get out'v here while we've got a chance."

* * *

Sauron…had not expected that. At all.

He had failed to take into account the woman's ability to move things with her mind, and he had no idea the man could do so. Even had he, there was no way he could have known the sheer strength of the mortal's power.

This was going to make things…difficult.

An all-out assault on Minas Tirith would waste resources that were still too few. He could surely take the city, but he had no doubt his army would suffer considerable losses; in the grand scheme of things, it was not worth it, no matter how the man irked him. Let the mortal sit until he grew complacent. They always did, in the end.

The woman was a relatively better target, but she too had known enough to exploit the Nazgûl's physical weakness. He could send all nine after her at once, but it was possible she would kill herself trying to take them down, and she was of no use to him dead. He would have to think of something else.

* * *

Arandur did not dare leave his linguistically-challenged charges to return to the Woodland Realm, but Prince Legolas had to be notified – and warned – about their hundreds of undead visitors, and the news they brought. The Halls had multiple fissures in the roof that would need to be blocked, should the darkness come.

King Dain loaned the use of one of his ravens, and Arandur composed a carefully-written letter – it had to be short and to the point, so that the bird didn't need to carry any more weight than necessary. What the Prince would do with the warning was his own business, but at least he'd _have_ it. Arandur did not envy him his position at all.

He'd just sent it off, and when he turned to go back to the mountain, he nearly ran straight into a very troubled Katje. He knew it was bad when she didn't even try to flirt or tease him – her face was paler than usual, lips bloodless, eyes wide and haunted.

"Katje, what is it?" he asked. She was normally such a sunny, cheerfully perverted person; he couldn't imagine what could have brought this on.

She wrapped her arms around her midsection. "Arandur, have you ever seen something you wished you could un-see?"

His mind immediately went to what the King had done to Lorna, so many months ago. "Yes," he said. "Why do you ask?"

She looked at the horizon, but did not seem to really see it. "On Earth, I know much," she said. "I know who and what I am, how I fit in world. Here I realize more and more how much I do _not_ know, and I wish I did not need to learn. I just saw terrible thing, and I am afraid."

"In truth, so am I," Arandur admitted. "Before Lorna and I went to Dale last winter, I had not left the Woodland Realm since I was a child. I scarcely knew how to function in the world as it was, let alone what it has become."

She looked at him, as though weighing the truth of his words, but he meant every one of them.

"We are all afraid, Katje," he said. "There is no shame in it. You would be mad not to be. If anyone can get us through this, it is the Dwarves – their legendary reputation of stubbornness is not undeserved. They do not give up until they absolutely have no other choice. Sometimes not even then."

Katje looked at him thoughtfully. "Geezer says Elves and Dwarves hate each other," she said, "but I do not see that here."

"Tauriel started something," he said. "She fell in love with a Dwarf, and came close to Fading when she lost him. It made some of us stop and think – if she could love a Dwarf, surely we could at least get along with them. The elder among us do not agree, but the prejudice has been ingrained in them for millennia. Five years is not nearly enough time to undo that." Indeed, it would likely not even begin to change until long after Katje was dead.

"I cannot imagine living so long without change," she said, her eyes traveling back to the bloody sunset. "Earth has changed so much in last thousand years, especially last hundred. Even a hundred and fifty years ago, many places are not much different than Dale, and now we have cell phones and airplanes. How can you live so long and not have these things by now?"

Arandur pondered that question. "Walk with me," he said. "I would see what those in Dale are doing."

Katje did without protest, her eyes darting along the lengthening shadows.

"We Eldar think ourselves superior in many ways," he said, "but our immortality comes with a price. The older we are, the slower we are to change. To us, you Edain live so very briefly, and you must cram all that you can into what time you have in the world. You have a sense of immediacy that we neither share nor understand, and accomplish all the more because of it."

Katje was quiet for several minutes, clearly turning that over in her mind. "That makes me feel better," she said at last. "Humans in Middle-Earth really seem to have been screwed over. Their lives are shorter than Elves or Dwarves, and there does not seem to be a single thing that one or both of you cannot do better than us. Dwarves make better buildings, you make better medicine, you _both_ make better weapons – is there anything at _all_ that we are better at?"

Arandur winced internally, because she had a very good point. Both Elves and Dwarves were often dismissive of Edain for those very reasons. "I know so little of the world outside the Woodland Realm that I do not know. There must be _something_." Privately, though, he wondered. Dale was quite primitive compared to the halls or even Erebor, and it was one of the better cities of the Edain, being built largely by the Dwarves.

Those who traded with Esgaroth had told horror stories of the conditions its people lived in: damp, filthy, the wood riddled with mold. The streets were cleaned right into the lake, which was also where all the sewage went – right into their drinking and washing water.

And yet none of the Edain that lived there seemed to _mind_. They saw nothing at all wrong with it. Personal cleanliness had also seemed a matter of indifference to many – Bard had always bathed regularly, or at least he did each time he was to meet with Elven traders, but a very large number appeared not to care. The poor hygiene of the Edain was a byword among the Eldar.

Clearly, that did not transcend worlds. Katje and Ratiri were quite fastidious, and while Geezer was not, he was still far better than those of Esgaroth. The Edain of Dale were much better about it, too, but still not to the level of the strangers from Earth. _Their_ world had far surpassed nearly everything either Dwarves or Eldar could do, but as for those of Middle-Earth…yes, she definitely had a point.

She laughed. "That is politician answer, but I will take it. I just think it is unfair that you have all advantage over us."

"Well, you _do_ have the Gift of Ilúvatar," he said, as they climbed the rise to the city.

"What is that?"

"Death."

Katje halted, staring at him. "Dying?" she asked, incredulous. "Our gift is _dying_? What kind of shit gift is _that_? It is _curse_, not present. Only those who kill themselves want to die. Whatever make you all must really hate us."

Privately, Arandur had to agree. He had never understood why anyone would consider death a gift, save those who were weary of the world, and Edain did not live nearly enough for that. Even worse, nobody actually knew where Edain went when they died – the Eldar were at least sure of their destination. The word 'gift' suggested it was somewhere nice, but nobody _knew_. How terrifying must that be? He could not even imagine it.

"Eru does nothing without reason," he said, not knowing what else to say.

"Well, I wonder what _reason_ he has to hate us so much he would call _death_ a _gift_," she grumbled. "Especially since, unless we are very lucky, we spend last years old and weak and sick. _Gift_ my ass."

Arandur burst out laughing before he could help it. "I'm sorry," he said. "You have a very good point. Someday you will have a chance to ask Eru himself."

"He had better have a damn good answer," Katje muttered darkly. "I like this world. I do not want to leave it."

"Hopefully you will not, any time soon."

"Knock wood, Arandur," she said. "Knock wood."

* * *

Dark though it was, the Elves set off from Minas Tirith at nightfall.

Given that there were Nazgûl on the loose, it was perhaps unwise, but so was staying near Von Ratched, who could unwittingly infect any of them at any time. They were all willing to risk it.

Lorna, too tired to walk, rode on the elk with Thranduil, trusting him not to chow down on her brain like a zombie. At this height she stood a better chance of seeing a Nazgûl approach – not that you really needed to _see_ them anyway. That encroaching sense of total, pants-crapping terror was more than warning enough that one was nearby.

Thus far she'd felt nothing of it, and the moonlight was bright enough to allow her to see a fair distance away with clarity. Thank God she didn't need glasses, because she doubted they were an option in Middle-Earth.

She shivered in the night's chill, and leaned back when Thranduil wrapped his cloak around her. "I'm worried that we've not seen any Nazgûl," she said.

"They are not stupid," he said. "Like as not, they will wait to attack until they are banded together, in the hope that you cannot fight them all at once."

_They're probably righ_t, she thought. Throwing around so much telekinesis this time had drained her as the forest had not done – probably because this time she'd been half ready to piss herself out of fear. Even the wreck that had killed Liam hadn't scared her so very much. The problem with Nazgûl wasn't just that they were terrifying – they brought with them a hopelessness that it would be all too easy to give in to. She'd been in pissed-off protector mode when she met them, but what if she wasn't next time?

_So long as Thranduil's around, you'll_ always _be in pissed-off protective mode when they show up._ That…was very true. If that was what it took for her to be able to fight those things, she was duct-taping him to her side. Even if she still wasn't quite sure he wouldn't scramble her brain in her sleep.

Speaking of sleep, now that the adrenaline was wearing off, she was crashing hard. Until now she'd always just napped on the elk, but she was still leery of going to sleep so near Thranduil. Sure, he hadn't hurt her during her last nap, and he seemed to be cured, more or less, but that didn't necessarily mean anything. And even though they had company, if he tried to brain-rape her again, nobody would be able to stop him.

So she struggled to stay awake while the moon sailed the sky, and they plodded on to what was presumably Rohan. They'd have to make camp and rest the horses sooner or later; she'd rest then.

Naturally, it was with that thought that she fell asleep.

* * *

Though Thranduil had been certain the Nazgûl would come for them, he had nevertheless allowed himself to hope they would not.

Of course, that hope was destined to be dashed.

The eastern sky was lightening with encroaching dawn when first he felt them, though he did not at first see them. He moved to wake Lorna, but she had already woken.

"Let me guess," she sighed, "it's the five that still have horses, isn't it?"

"And the two that still have bodies," he said, eyes darting from figure to figure.

"Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker," she muttered. He could feel the pounding of her heart against his chest, and when he looked down, he found her face had gone grey. "So assuming I don't fuck this up and we all die, I'm probably going to pass out when this is over. Don't eat my brain."

"I will endeavor not to," he said, but his dryness was strained. His own pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to be as calm as he could. He had dealt with worse than Nazgûl – if he could survive a dragon, he could certainly survive this. "How close do you need to be?"

"Closer than this, but they'll come to us, right?" she asked, giving the elk an absent pat as he shifted uneasily. The horses were more than uneasy; only the skill of their riders kept them from bolting. Even that might not prove enough, if the things drew too near. The malice of their aster was channeled through them far too efficiently.

And Lorna…he'd seen her strength, but she was so young, and so inexperienced with her power. Strength counted for little if you could not use it with any kind of precision, and she had demonstrated little.

"Fire," he said, dismounting the elk. Stabbing a Nazgûl was fatal to the one doing the stabbing, but fire was useful, and all Elves carried tinder when they traveled. The fields of Gondor were too green to burn well, but Elves could create fire almost anywhere.

The rest of their small party dismounted as well, boots all but silent as they hit the ground. Lorna stayed atop the elk, but she had to, if she wanted to actually see her enemies.

The entire group of them hung back, and he could feel their gaze even as he kindled one of the boughs from their small store of firewood. They would not, he was sure, attack in brute melee; instead they formed a loose ring around the Elven party, doubtless hoping Lorna would not be able to handle all of them at once. Knowing there was one behind him made his shoulder blades itch – he could only thank Eru they were not normally archers.

"Thranduil," Lorna said, her voice unsteady, "I'm gonna try something. If I fuck it up and we all die, I'm sorry in advance."

"That is not nearly as comforting as you think it is," he said, trying for levity and failing utterly.

The trouble with Lorna's telekinesis was that she did not use her hands to guide it. Thus he had no warning at all when the earth itself exploded in a ring around them, soil and grass spewing high into the air. The ground beneath them shuddered like an earthquake, panicking horses and elk alike, but there was nowhere for either to flee. Up, up went the earth, until it ringed them like a solid wall, and the Nazgûl shrieked from within it.

Quite suddenly, everything dropped, the wall collapsing into uneven mounds rather like barrows. The smell of freshly-turned earth hung heavy in the air, borne along by a faint breeze. Silence followed in its wake, broken only when Lorna half-climbed, half-fell off the elk, and was violently sick all over the grass.

Thranduil jumped down as well, holding her hair back while she sicked up what little she had eaten in the last days. Shudders wracked her, and it wasn't long before she was dry-heaving, having nothing left in her stomach to bring up.

"Maybe that wasn't such a great idea," she croaked, spitting bile.

"At least it worked," he said, stroking her hair. "Even they will not easily dig themselves out of _that_ hole."

"I sure as hell hope not," she said, spitting again. "I'm so damn exhausted I'll be totally useless for a while. Maybe a long while. Doing that was a lot harder than ripping up Mirkwood."

"You could ration your strength in the forest," he said, and did not add that her mortality worked against her. Sharley might have stopped her aging, but her body was no more durable than it had always been. Mortals were not meant to wield that sort of power – she was paying for now, and she might continue paying it for some time to come.

"I need a drink," she said, "and then a nap. Wake me up if we're about to die."

* * *

Katje's conversation with Arandur is one I've had with my friends before: humans really do seem to have got the shaft in Middle-Earth, with their drastically shorter lifespans and comparative frailty, not to mention the fact that there doesn't seem to be a damn thing that _can_ be done that Elves, Dwarves, or both can't do better. Add in the whole "hey, you've got this thing you can't refuse, which means you have the shortest lifespan and which sends you to some afterlife you have no idea about, be grateful" and the last thing in the world I'd want to be in Middle-Earth is a human. (Well, there's orcs, but they don't really count as people.) And, like Katje says, humans get to spend their twilight years growing more and more physically (and maybe mentally) infirm.

Of course, the Númenoreans didn't have that problem, but they went and ruined it for everyone else. Then again, it wouldn't have occurred to them to ruin it if, you know, that so-called "gift" hadn't been foisted on them without consultation. (Can you tell I've got some feelings on the subject?)

Title means "Screw this noise" in Irish. As always, your reviews are what keep me writing.


	67. Epilogue

In which things are set in motion.

* * *

Lorna slept most of the way to Rohan, and so missed the Elves' reaction to the hordes of walking dead. Which was really a shame, because it had probably been epic.

When she did wake, they were surrounded by the things, and she damn near pissed herself. Aelis had mentioned that some of her people would show up, but knowing and seeing were two very, very different things.

"What in flying mother fuck?" she asked, her voice harsh and gravelly.

"Do not ask," Thranduil said. "I am sure we do not wish to know, and equally sure we will soon find out."

"Do we have to?" she whined.

"Unfortunately, yes. And then we must call on King Thengel, to see what he and his court are making of this."

"I doubt it's anything good," she sighed. "How far from him are we? Because zombies or no zombies, I did say I'd shag you senseless. Once I actually have enough energy to walk."

Thranduil laughed. "I will see what I can do. Meanwhile, at least one of them will likely want to speak with us."

"Oh, joy."

* * *

The rest of the journey through the Misty Mountains was so uneventful that Gandalf was not at all surprised when it suddenly ceased to be so.

They were halfway to Beorn's house when he felt it: a ripple in the fabric of Middle-Earth quite unlike the storms, alien and malevolent. There was coldness to it, frigid and dead as the void of space, but it swiftly turned hot, dry, and metallic against his mind's eye. It was far stronger than the storms, too, though the epicenter was difficult to guess – somewhere to the north was as close as he could estimate.

Sharley froze, and if there had been any color in her face, it likely would have drained. She was normally a difficult creature to read, but just now there was sheer, naked terror in her expression. It only made things more disconcerting.

"Sharley, what is it?" he asked.

"Our unwanted guest just arrived," she said, swallowing. "Thorvald. Thorvald's here, but he's brought something else with him, something I can't see. I can't see it. I'm supposed to be able to see everything, and there's so much in Middle-Earth that I can't. I have no goddamn idea what's with him, but there shouldn't be anything."

She pressed her hands to her temples, looking more animated – if distraught – than he had ever seen her. Bilbo and Sméagol both watched her, concerned and confused; they had picked up a little English, but not nearly enough to know what she was saying now.

"I have to go," she said. "I need to see what the hell he's done."

Gandalf leaned against his staff. "And how much good will you do, by yourself?" he asked. "Could you kill Thorvald on your own?"

"No," she admitted. "His fate's bound up with other humans'. There's not much my word won't do, but killing him's one of 'em."

"Can't, or won't?" he asked.

"Won't," she said. "This is Death's sword, Gandalf. Technically it can kill anything, but sometimes the price of that is too high. It's why I wouldn't try to destroy the ring with it. The sword knows better than to break the world, and some things…would. But Gandalf, at least I could slow him down."

"And if you are captured, and the sword taken from you?" he queried.

"Nobody but me an use it. Literally, it would burn the hand off anyone else who even picked it up. Captured…I don't know. He might be able to hold me. He might not."

"Do you really think it worth the risk?" He didn't, but Sharley would do what Sharley wanted.

"I don't know," she said, chewing on her lower lip.

"I know," he said firmly. "It is entirely possible I will be drawn aside during this quest, temporarily or permanently. They will need your protection then."

She looked at him. "You might not be there the whole way?"

"Should other danger arise, I may be have to see to it," he said. "A wizard's work is never done. Should that prove necessary, I would feel safer if you were with them."

Her mismatched eyes searched his for truth, and must have found it. "Okay," she said. "I'm trusting you. I don't do that often, so don't make me regret it."

"I will try not to, dear girl."

* * *

Much had infuriated Sauron, these last few days. His Nazgûl had been routed by two mortals, thousands of dead walked the face of Middle-Earth, and still he could not find the being behind Angmar's razing.

Now, however, he was intrigued.

The storms that brought the dead had been doors to another world. What had so briefly opened in the snowy wastes of Forodwaith was also a door, but of a very different kind, to a very different destination. The creature it discharged was also unlike any of the other strangers that had come to Middle-Earth.

It looked much like the usurper in Minas Tirith – a mortal man, tall for one of his kind, his pale eyes refracting the sunset like an animal's. He was younger, though, perhaps barely into his second decade, and obviously suffering the effects of some terrible fever – his white face was flushed with it, and his eyes were bloody at the corners. And yet, through some alien sorcery, he was not mortal at all. Even through the Palantír, Sauron could feel the unnatural power that bore him up, surrounding him like an aura.

Perhaps acquiring the mortal strangers was unnecessary. He had a greater prize in mind now – one he could not leave to his ineffective Nazgûl.

This creature was something he would have to retrieve himself.

It was time to venture forth from Mordor.

* * *

OH SNAP. Well, now everyone's boned. This concludes Ettelëa, which will shortly be followed by _Auth uin i Ettelëai_, which means War of the Strangers.

As always, your reviews are what give me life. Let me know what you thought of this gigantic monstrosity.


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